The Gully Boys The Brothers Gale And Their Mates

By Len Gale – 2010

ISBN: 978-0-473-22691-6

At a time before I was born I found myself on a conveyor sweeping through a valley. Countless

babies were being blessed by numerous Gods who had gathered in groups under trees or

beside the stream that flowed through the valley. Some Gods were busy bestowing talents,

good looks and skills upon the unborn babies. They stood beside the conveyer belt and touched

one or another as we rumbled past. A number whose gifts were of great value, such as a flair

for languages or super mathematical ability were engrossed in card and board games. Even so,

every now and then, one would break away and go over to the conveyor and touch a child and

say here's an artist or here‘s a pianist or a mathematical whiz. And that is how in a hit or miss

way people end up with freckles or are poets, great gardeners or rat bags. One of the minor

Gods came over to me and said ‘This fellow will get pissed on the smell of a wine cork‘.

Charming! Others were better disposed and truth to tell I came out with a couple of good points

and one or two not so good. My final gift was to be given to two wonderful people who loved me

till the day they died. Who encouraged me and my brothers and sisters to simply do our best.

When it became time to enter this world my mother with the help of a midwife began for me,

life’s journey. I was tongue tied which meant breastfeeding was delayed until a doctor cut the

skin under my tongue. He made another cut too, while he had his little knife out.

Before the primers Mum took me to a pre-school in the basement of the primer school. I was not

impressed, the proper school had to be better. I still liked being home watching the sun beams

when Mum made the beds and when Mum read the letters that came from her sister in England.

I wished I could read. The time came for me and several others to enter the primmer building.

The teacher herded us up the wide concrete steps into the cloakroom, coats and bags on

hooks. ‘Yes, that is your name.’ How proud we were, our name on a coat hook! ‘Hey, that red

headed boy, where are you going?’ I was heading for the classroom where the learning was.

That is when lesson number one dawned. If there was any trouble the red head gets the blame!

On the other hand other kids think red heads were good fighters. And then there was teasing.

‘Who made the donkey buck? GINGER!‘ The slight Liverpool accent that came more from my

mother than my father saw me on top of a heap of road metal throwing stones at my tormenters,

screaming ‘I'm not a p0mmy!' And other words the meanings quite unknown. My mother sent

me off to school wearing an apron with a wide pocket for the chalk and duster. After the first day

I hid it under a hedge.

The same with my shoes and socks in the summer. I felt a freedom my mother did not

understand. Even a stubbed toe was bearable compared to shoes with socks up to your knees,

yuck!

I wake to find my father sitting on the bed holding my hand. ‘Its OK they are not here. they are

not real.’ 'It’s the Hobyards Dad; they were going to put you and mum in their bags and take you

away!‘ The Hobyards, Hen Len and Chicken Licken and Milly-Molly-Mandy were the three

stories we learnt to read in the primers. Briefly the Hobyards came each night to carry off the

little old man and the little old woman but their little dog Toby barked and barked so the

Hobyards ran off. Not before they had cut off, each night, one of his legs. This horror story

dragged on with the creepy Hobyards retreating time after time with their empty bags and the

dog reduced to a trunk. The Hobyards finally gave up; they were so impressed with the brave

little dog! ‘First they would have to get us in the bags. Then, if they did I would cut holes in the

bags and your Mother and I would escape!‘ Dad did have a sheath knife, which he used at his

work. He wore it on his belt behind his back. Slightly to the right, so that he could get to it with

either hand. ‘But it won’t happen.‘ Dad calmed me by telling me of his life at sea in those

wonderful sailing ships. My father would protect our whole family, no matter what. I was soon

asleep.

More trouble, Mum is going to see Mr. Snell the headmaster, about the Hobyard story. The

teachers will think I'm a scaredy cat. The ‘Reader’ stayed even though other parents

complained. Some of the kids wet the bed too! Cripes! I will look over the fences as we go to

school and see if there are any sheets on the line. Then I will know who the scaredy cats are. I

bet Ronny White wets his bed. He would piss himself if you gave him a look. Jack looked

daggers at him once and he ran home. His pants looked wet but I was not sure. Anyway if I wet

the bed Mum just washes the sheets and hangs them out in the sun. My Mum never growls.

When Jim and I were very little, Mum would take us to the corner of Fourth and Kingsland

Avenues to meet our father on his way home from work. Later we were to wait at the top of

Kingsland Avenue by the fireplug sign F. P. We would race to touch P that would mean a pass

in our schoolwork. We would watch for our father walking quickly towards us, his full-length

leather coat open to the breeze. I don’t think he ever buttoned it up. There came a time when

we made it to the fence at Kingsland Railway Station. We waited there for our father, whose

work involved the train that brought him to us.

Dad has a special leather bag that just fits two short pieces of old railway sleeper. The wood is

very heavy and red. Jim and I chop the wood for the coal range, there is enough to warm the

house and cook the meals. Mum lights the fire at 6 so by the time we get up there is a nice fire

to get dressed by. Dad leaves at 6.30 so we don't see him till we wait at the station gate. The

engine driver gives us a wave and We know to watch for an arm reaching for the whistle cord

and to block our ears. The best part is when they spin the wheels, let go some sand and take off

for Morningside. We are up on the footbridge as quick as quick to whoop and yell as the steam

and smoke comes up between the planks. But it’s our Dad we came for. ‘Let me carry the bag!‘

‘No it’s my turn, I'm the strongest’. We would soon have a handle each or Dad would keep the

bag and laugh. He is the best Dad ever. He is the only Dad in our street with a job.

'It’s another mouth to feed’ was always the answer to the why can’t we have a dog question.

Our main counter was that it could guard us when we went to the lavy. The lavy is up the back

yard. Dad has remade it a lot bigger. We have coats in there in case it starts to rain while we are

inside and if you get there and someone is already there, you can wait As for the spooks and

boogy men Dad says to lengthen your arm. He gives me a waddy and sends me into the black

and frosty night. ‘Look up at the stars, that is the most beautiful sight you will ever see.‘ And he

told us too, where to look for the Southern Cross and Orion and the sweep of the Milky Way. I

am lucky to have a father who was a seaman. There are lots of interesting men in our street.

Take Pop Phillips, he cut down a Dodge car and made it into a truck, a genius. And Mr. Ogle he

has his meals on sheets of newspaper then bundles it all up for the fire! ‘Saves washing dishes

and you kids can learn to read‘, he says. My mother is not impressed.

Then there‘s an old man who lives on his own in a little hut the other end of our street. He only

wears a singlet, pants and a worn out pair of sand shoes without socks or laces. The hair on his

chest grows through the singlet. Just lazy’. Mum says. He’s got two dogs, one follows him

everywhere, trots along like a shadow. The other dog stays at home. Its back legs don’t work at

all. The old man made a little wooden trolley for the dog, even the wheels are made of wood.

The dog pulls himself around the yard as quick as quick. We pat him and his eyes are sad.

A little old lady lives on her own too, in an even smaller hut nearby. It is covered with a rambling

rose bush. The floor that we can see through the door is hard packed dirt covered with lino and

old carpet A kerosene lantern hangs from a rafter. Her cats drink from a bowl under a dripping

tap. We like her, she always asks about our lessons, what stories have we read. Her sweetheart

died in the war. She smiles and strokes my hair. She is sad too. Mum says she cleans houses

over in Remuera, and much of the money goes in tram fares.

Kevin's father gets us tickets to see films in Queen Street. He is often drunk, but we all like him.

He sort of weaves his way along the footpath until he gets to his house. Then he falls up the

wooden steps to the verandah. We saw ‘Dawn Patrol’ about airmen in the war my father was in.

My Dad was in the Navy. Anyway, the film was only about men who kept saying ‘By Jove’ and

‘Jolly good show old boy!’

A blind lady also lives in our street. Her husband works on the wharf, when he can get a job.

They have this huge Alsatian dog. The moment the gate clicks he barks, but he knows our

voices so he calms down. We say hello to the lady and can we help her. Sometimes we hang

out the washing or beat the carpets. which we drape over the clothesline.

The strangest person is ‘Bricky’ Robinson. He has a horse and cart. Winter and summer he

stands on the tray with a knocked in sack over his head that makes him look like a pixie. We

have never seen anything on the cart as it zigzags up the hill. We know not to hop on the back

as he has a nasty looking whip. The horse knows too. One day it stood up on its back legs when

‘Bricky’ gave it a taste. There is a Bay tree at his place; we sometimes yank a branch off on our

way home. Mum hangs it in the back porch and always puts a leaf or two in the soup for flavour.

There is only one man with tattoos. Fair dinkum. We asked all the kids at school and their

fathers had none. He was a sailing ship man He has two on each arm On the right arm the

Union Jack and the three legs of Mann. An anchor and an eagle show on his left arm. Before

workers had pass-ports, the tattoos on his arms said who and what he was anywhere in the

world. We know who he is, he is our father.

Some kid pinched my lunch but Jane gave me her apple and a boy gave me two dates. Mum

said you have to understand some children don't have breakfast and they just get so hungry. lt’s

not their fault. lts winter and we are having free cocoa at school. I took the biggest mug in the

house but the ladies only half filled it! How mean can you get? They have this great shiny

copper urn full of cocoa, milk and sugar and I only get half a mug! But it’s hot and I find a corner

in the shelter shed and sip slowly to make it last. The bare foot kids sit on the benches with their

legs up with the mug held between their feet. The ladies warn about chill blains but you can tell

they are not angry. They come every day even if it is raining. Mrs. Richardson is their boss. Mr.

Snell comes to thank them, that is how I know her name. He gets two of us to carry the urn back

to the car. If there is any left we get a serve in our mugs so then I have to make a trip to the lavy

half way through the afternoon. Mrs. Lockeysticks, that is not her real name, she's a dragon, is

our teacher in standard one. If we don’t pay attention or get all our sums right she keeps us in

after school. Two of us found that we could climb out a window while she was in the staff room

having a cup of tea. She did not even know we had gone! Her son is in our class and he knows

better than to pimp. We did it every time. But the worst rule was not going to the lavy during

class. ‘Mind over matter, learn to control yourself’ she would chant, silly cow‘. And what about a

bladder full of cocoa? After some close calls the way around the problem was a jam tin. I simply

peed into the tin. kept it under the desk on the shelf. Then I carried it at my side as we were

marched out row by row at three o'clock. Once a cleaner took the tin away but I got a new one

and nothing was said. I always rinsed it out so it did not pong.

Miss Sykes has started again. She‘s our teacher in standard two. Whacks me just about every

morning, me and sometimes two other boys. We have to stand behind the blackboard while she

settles the class. It all began at the beginning of the year. Then for two weeks it stopped but

now she is at me all the time. Says, ‘Lenny Gale you're a two fights a day red head and I'll put a

stop to it!’ I am not a fighter but I do get into fights. It is because I am always laughing. Wham!

The strap goes on my hand and on up my wrist. Sometimes I pull back and the strap hits her

dress. She is so worked up she does not notice. I only try it once in awhile. Two on each hand. I

sit down with my swollen hands on fire and thrust under my armpits. Big words were another

source of pain. When I failed to spell a word like together, whack! Then one day a boy

whispered, to-get-her and I was saved. He took a risk too; talking in class was worth one on

each hand. My pencil work is so bad I'll never get to use ink. The best writers have ‘bags Id’ the

glass ones with little brass disks that slide over the opening. The girls bring in Brasso to polish

theirs, lucky dogs! be lucky to even get a white pottery one with a chip. I began cutting notches

in my belt to mark each time she hit me, but I gave that up. There would soon be no belt left. I

have been making beaut little darts from broken nibs. By splitting the part that fits into the holder

I can fit paper wings to the nib. Squeezing it in the hinge part of the seat in my desk, splits the

nib. They stick into the ceiling if I wang them up hard enough. It does not do to think about what

might happen if she catches me.

Anyway I don’t care! At home I pulled all the door locks to bits and put them together after I oiled

the parts. Even made a key for the boy’s bedroom but Dad says not to lock it at night. There

might be a fire and then what would we do? Jump out the window! Inside the locks there were

hairpins, buttons, lots of dust and no money, what is the good of that?

One time at Point Chevalier beach Dad was leading us to the water but a crowd of yachties

blocked the path. Without slowing down Dad said ‘Stand aside you channel gropers and let a

deep sea sailor roll by.‘ They did, quickly. We played near the shore and caught tiny flounder in

the pools left when the tide went out. Dad always swam out a long way until we could only see

his head in the waves. He’s more of a smiler than a laugher, my Dad. so he is nearly always

smiling. Even when he is reading to himself he smiles. Once to see if he would notice we turned

the teacup around and watched while he tried to find the handle while he read. We even ate his

sandwich and left him the crust, which he ate, to see if he was in another world. He read to us

too. We sat in his lap or perched on the arms of his chair to get as close as we could. Best of all

he told us about his adventures when he roamed the world. And because we loved him and

were proud of his tattoos, we rubbed butter on his arms to bring out the colours and the designs.

Kingsland has its very own barber. Not that Jim and I went very often. Mum cut our hair. a short

back and sides that often ended with a tuft of hair over the forehead. We were not alone, every

penny counted in those days. Mum's lack of skill with scissors and comb made a steps and

stairs pattern on our heads. Other kids had pudding basin cuts that we considered to be worse

than Mum's efforts. When, on the odd occasion that we entered the barbershop, Mr. Hepburn

would place a board across the arms of the chair and say, hop up young shaver. This always

struck me as strange as none of us had started to shave. Perhaps he knew we sometime did

shave a few sprouting hairs on our chests and I would colour up. ‘Mother cut your hair?‘ would

be his next remark. ‘Yes'. ‘Thought so‘ He'd say in a pained voice and the waiting men would all

grin. More blushes. He would even shave your neck with a cutthroat razor. First the hot soapy

brush, then the stropping. Mr. Hepburn smelt of home brew and I hoped he would have a steady

hand. Then the scented spray. Cold and tingly as he gave my hair a final comb. Sometimes he

held a mirror so that I could admire his work. All that for nine pence. I once remarked to my

father that Mr. Hepburn knew lots of things. Oh yes my father queried, about what? Well I

recalled, he knows about the Olympic Games in Germany and just about everyone asks him

about race horses, the weather and when to plant things in the garden. I had heard all this as

my turn came around. ‘Well said my father after careful consideration, he seems to know an

awful lot about not much‘.

It was pouring when I arrived at the barber‘s one spring day. Mr. Hepburn dried my hair and

forgot the ‘did you mother cut your hair‘ jibe that followed the hop up young shaver command.

When I paid he took me out the back of his shop. There, lying in the mud, drenched to the skin

was a man. ‘Lofty’ Lowe from Third Avenue, dead drunk and quite happy to be in the warm rain.

Mr. Hepburn gave me his hard look and said ‘that’s the result of too much beer.‘ When I told my

father, he smiled, and I think he felt better towards Mr. Hepburn.

Mum has gone to the hospital to have a baby. Dad says no more midwives after we lost your

twin brother. l'm sad when he says that. Mum goes to the window and looks out across the

paddocks. Then the hem of her pinafore gets wet. I hope it’s a boy then him, Jim and me can be

the three musketeers. It’s no good with mates like Dick and Lionel down the road. they run away

whenever we look like being beaten, which is most of the time. There are too many big kids

about who can‘t get a job. They don't want to play at being swords men. They just want to fight

and give you a blood nose. Sometimes we climb up the blue gums and watch them go by. We

don't give them any cheek and they hang about a bit, then go.

Ronny Pike has got a job in a mattress factory but he says when he is due for the adult wage he

will get the sack He's got a racing bike and wants to win heaps of money at Western Springs.

Dad says the promoters get all the money and Ronny will bust his gut trying to win. We just

want our own hero and to cheer him on at the bell lap.

Cripes, you‘ll never guess what happened while Mum was in hospital getting our baby sister

Audrey. Next time we might get a brother? Anyway there was Dad scrubbing the front verandah

when old man Shaw comes rolling down the road. Drunk as a chook. ‘Hey! What you think

youse are doin‘, that’s womin‘s work!’ Dad kept working away and we just stood on the front

lawn and waited. ‘Hey! Can’t you hear me, I wouldn't scrub the floor for no womin!' Once old

man Shaw got the hang of it he just kept at it until Dad had had enough. He stood, picked up the

bucket, walked slowly over to his tormentor and emptied the lot over his head. ‘Well I would’

was all he said. Afterwards he told us its best to give the other fellow a chance to clear off.

Besides, your aim is better if you keep calm.

Everyone wants to know what church you go to, we don’t. Our family goes to the beach by tram

or on foot to the Museum or sometimes the Art Gallery and then we go to an ice cream parlour

in Queen Street. We walk all the way there and back. Mum and Dad walk over Grafton Bridge,

arm in arm while we scramble down the gully over the stream and up the other side to see who

will win. Dad sends the little ones, Norman and Gerty off first, then Audrey, then Jim and me.

Mum says it is the only time they get to be on their own. Why go to another school after you

have had five days of it and sit and listen to another teacher and pay money as well and on a

sunny day? Any road we are happy as it is, we can be friends with them all and tease them too.

My new friend Tommy Hayes and I are in the same class [Standard 4A 1937] so it was natural

that we would both apply to go to the Health Camp on Motuihe Island. This meant I would have

two weeks holiday in sea air and sun. My father made me a seaman’s canvas bag, brass

eyelets and a rope tie. It was with great excitement that about 80 skinny boys marched up the

Baroona’s gangplank. The fastest ferry on the Waitemata heightened our joy. The camp on the

island is a Naval base. They even call the island a ship! We slept in the barracks and ate huge

meals in the sailor’s mess rooms. Our morning snack was a round of French toast. There were

doses of brimstone and treacle to make sure we were regular. Of course we were soon

homesick. Some boys punched others to get around the problem, while others sang lonesome

songs. I got into a fight with a boy who had made a wooden knife. He managed to cut my eyelid.

One of the nurses took me in her arms to the sick bay. Blood everywhere, real drama! More

than that I would not tell who had the knife. You just don’t nark. I became an instant hero. Big

boys would give me a friendly punch on the shoulder and say ‘Good on ya blue’. I was glad to

see the knife thrown into the campfire that night. It also meant that I got a turn at an elaborate

game of cricket. A long stick for the bat and a short one for the ball. The ‘ball’ was placed over a

shallow hole and flicked up with the bat. The score was counted by the distance the ‘ball’ went

as measured by lengths of the ‘bat’. The camp was situated near a narrow neck of land with a

calm beach on one side and an ocean beach on the other. We had a choice of beaches but

towards the end of our stay we favoured the calm beach. That’s where the wharf is and the way

home.

At last singing ‘lt’s a long way to Tipperary’ and ‘Show me the way to go home’ we trooped

aboard the Baroona. How she sped across the harbour passing yachts and scows. Those

wonderful little ships loaded with shingle, cattle or logs. The scow men waved, they would no

doubt know we were from the Health Camp. Oh the joy of seeing my father on the wharf. With

my kit bag on my shoulder we walked to the tram stop in Custom Street. Once on the safety

zone we awaited the Avondale tram that would take us to Kingsland Dad listened as my

adventures came rushing out, all jumbled and important to me. Then a welcome home that

brought happy tears to my eyes and I found it hard to speak. My sailor’s kit bag on my bed I

knew I was home. Tommy’s family moved away during the following year. Poor people when the

rent was overdue moved to another house, usually in the night. It is called a midnight flit. The

camp was a great adventure but family ties are stronger. The sighing of pines when the wind

blows, always takes me back to Motuihe.

My Dad can do all sorts of jobs. He repaired our roof with pieces of canvas soaked in tar. Slid

the canvas under the rusty bits and shaped it into the hollows. ‘Beat that’ he chuckled, we might

even catch a pigeon for tea’. It was me that nearly got caught. Dad was putting a sky light in the

verandah roof to let more sun in the front room. Forbidden to go up the ladder I climbed up the

corner post and scrambled onto the roof. The next step was to get over the two wires that hung

over the verandah roof. WHAM! The moment I touched one I was flung onto my back! The next

thing I knew I was being carried down the ladder by my father. My first grown up cup of tea and

Mum scolding Dad. ‘He follows you everywhere, you might have known he would get on the roof

to be near you!’ Two lengths of rubber hose were cut and slipped over the bare wires. Dad

wound insulation tape here and there to bind the hose in place. I watched from the front lawn.

Mum sent us up the road for milk. Six peneth, in a billy. We soon had the milk and the six-

pence. Mum put her hand out for the money which Jim and I were due to share. I know you've

got it she insisted. First, you were too quick, second the milk is warm, third there's a cow hair in

the milk. You have milked one of the cows in the farm opposite, so hand over the money!

Another time I was sent up the road to get the bread (do not eat the inside on the way home!)

Two ladies were talking at the corner of First and Kingsland Avenue, One called me over and

said to the other, he's one of mine. When I got home tears flowed as I asked if she was my

mother. Mum wrapped her first born in her apron and held him close as she explained about

nurse Whigmore and how she helped me into the world.

Money did not always elude us, we needed it to buy or exchange comics, to go to the ‘flicks' on

Saturday afternoons, but rarely for sweets. Jim and I made a sledge. The idea was to have a go

on the slopes of Mt. Eden. Well, we lugged the sled taking turns, lamp-post to lamp-post all the

way to the mountain. Boy, those slopes are ST EEP! Anyway we came upon the remains of a

pine tree. The smell and all the branches scattered about! It was as though a giant had

undressed. No trunk, just heaps of chips, needles and branches. And then amongst all this

mass of green we found an axe! We dumped the sledge and away we marched with our prize.

Turn about, post to post, until we crossed the railway lines and scrambled up beside the Royal

Theater and studied the program. Cowboys, that will do us! The man in the second hand shop

offered two shillings and sixpence. First we must have a note from our father. We returned with

the note and a happy group of mates all keen to share our good fortune. Change of plans, we

headed for the Empress Theatre near the corner of Ponsonby Road. Robin Hood was on and

he was one of our heroes. Another complication was that the admission cost was sixpence and

we had grown to a band of ten. Simple arithmetic meant that if we could get in at half time for

half price we could all see the main film. Three pence each, simple. Not likely said the ticket girl.

I have cashed up and would you please go away. So we crowded around the sweet shop

window, ten tongues licking lips. ‘Wait! Wait! The manager held up ten ‘passouts'. Here lads, in

you go at half time for your half a crown. Done, and how we enjoyed Robin Hood. We played

with our quarter staffs and made long bows and shot bamboo arrows at targets. We liked

William Tell too, but we did not know how to make crossbows so we just talked about the Swiss

hero and how we would go there one day. The best part was when the soldier wanted to know

why the father had taken two bolts from his quiver, he said, had I killed my son you would have

got the second one. Great!

Another way to gather in some money was to hijack one of the many school raffles that came

around the neighbourhood. We were not a religious family and we attended the State school.

We saw the Catholic as fair game. Peas in an Agee jar. Guess how many. Penny a pop and you

could win five shillings. We had a sneak look at the jar, full to the top! Right, all we have to do is

fill our own jar to get the number of peas and the money is as good as ours! We lined the peas

up ten at a time until the jar was full, 820. Then Audrey had an idea. Why not swap jars just to

be sure‘? When the knock came to the door we took the jar for our mother to guess the number.

The jars were swapped and our name written beside the numbers 819, 820 and 821 in the little

book and three pence handed over. Imagine our surprise to learn that 690 had won! There were

two golf balls in the middle of their jar! We told our mates at school and they all said you can‘t

trust those sneaky Catholics! Their peas tasted like ours anyway and we gained two golf balls.

Another time and this was at our school, there was a best-dressed doll contest. We paid a

penny a vote and there was a draw so that someone won a bar of chocolate just for joining in.

The best doll, as voted, won for the owner another bigger doll. Along comes this woman and

puts a heap of pennies on her daughter‘s mangy doll so that she won a nice doll! One of our

gang won the chocolate so we shared that out on the spot. That was our rule, share and share

alike. If you shared an apple with a mate, he cut and you chose. That way mates stay mates.

When Jim and I visit our cousins in Avondale we walk the pipe line. Auckland's water from the

dams in the Waitakeres flows in steel pipes alongside the railway lines. In places the pipes are

supported on trestles over deep holes. Not everyone is game to cross on the pipe and some

kids sit and ‘ride' the pipe, others walk beside the tracks. The trick is to hold your arms out and

never look down past the pipe. Aunt Mary always gives us fruit or a sandwich. It is good to see

our cousins Muriel, Winey and John.

Mr Bell our science teacher told us about lightning rods. Not only do they send electricity to

earth, they are made of copper. We knew that the pump house chimney at Western Springs had

a lightning rod. The problem was how to get it. We had a plan‘ Climb up the ladder inside the

chimney with a rope and a large brick. Tie the rope to the brick and the rod and throw the brick

to the ground. The copper rod would peel off and we would be rich. The abandoned stoke hole

was a bit spooky as Dave and I made our way to the trap door‘ Once inside we could feel the

up-draught as the warm air inside the chimney sucked up the cold air from the open trap door.

The ladder, which on previous visits seemed so strong, was broken and not attached in places.

Dave and I looked at each other, then turned and left.

Mum laughs sometimes until she cries. Then she wipes her eyes on her piney and starts all

over again. We know she is going to stop when she slaps her thighs. That is often the end. One

night while we were all asleep some of Dad's mates came around to have a yarn. Dad was

often drawing cartoons for unions and anti-fascist leaflets, so it may have been to do with that.

He went under the house to get a couple of bottles of wine and heard noises above in what he

reasoned to be his bedroom Entering the back door he placed the wine on the kitchen table and

made his way to the bedroom. He caught a man going through the dressing table draws. A

burglar! Dad grabbed him and marched him into the family room. It was pointed out to the

unemployed man that robbing workers was not on. He emptied his pockets before a hasty exit.

And Mum, well she tipped the draws out and washed everything. After a couple of days she saw

the funny side and that’s when she calmed down.

My father's friend Jack Rayner was the only person we knew that owned a car. Whenever he

came to visit we would stand on the running board and peer at the dials and levers and the

magical steering wheel. One day the car pulled up outside our house but before we ran out dad

called us back and then we saw a man in the front seat. He was wearing an overcoat and his

hat was pulled down so that we could hardly see his face. Dad opened the rear door and

climbed in as the car drove away. We were not to know at the time but the car drove up

Kingsland Avenue to Mr. Magl0ne‘s police station. There the man surrendered to the Mr.

Maglone who took him to the Central Police Station. We wanted to know all about it when dad

came home. Dad explained that the man was a leader of the unemployed and that Mr. Maglone

would see that he surrendered unharmed.

She's a great singer my Mum, she sings on a Monday morning doing the washing. Gracie

Fields’ songs, Kathleen Mavorneen and probably thinking of my sailor Dad ‘Red sails in the

sunset‘. The wood for the copper came from all over the place. Even leather from Mudgway's

shoe factory, what a stink! Anyway, this day we had dragged home a willow branch. Mum got

the fire under way and shoved the branch in to do the final boil up. I can see her now dipping

into the copper with her special stick. Lifting the dripping clothes on high, jumping the branch,

flopping the steaming load into the wooden tubs. Then back for a second dip, then a rub on the

board, then through the wringer and out the door and onto the clothesline. She never missed a

beat, the song flooding the neighbourhood. She was so busy cranking the wringer and giving a

free concert it was not until the Washhouse filled with smoke that it dawned on her that the

washhouse floor was on fire! My first serious carpentry job and Dad said is was OK too I guess

a few spiders died that time.

Now and then a young fellow, thin and a bit shabby would come selling clothes props. Tee tree

poles with a fork at the end and neatly pointed at the other. Mum always bought one. After he

had gone we would chop it up for the fire in the house. ‘Plenty of heat in that wood. better than

your willow branches‘ she‘d say. All gloomy, and no more singing that day.

Rag and bone men came too. They called out 'raaaaags an’ bo-unnss'! The horse would wait as

the old clothes were weighed on a Roman steelyard. That is what Mum said it was but I never

saw any Romans around. It looked like a bar of steel with a floppy weight and a couple of

hooks. Not that we had much in the way of old clothes. Mum made our clothes on her old

sewing machine. It had a treadle and she could sure make it hum. I liked to watch as

the bobbin was wound. A little arm went back and forth as the cotton wound on the spool and

then it was put into the shuttle. I recon my mum is the best mum in the street. Probably in the

whole of Kingsland. We gather black berries in the gully and bring home a few apples in our

shirts to make a pie. If a branch hangs over a fence the apples are ours. If there are lots of

apples on the ground in some ones garden we take a few. Mum never asks any questions.

Apples peeled and grated, then pastry spread on the bottom of the pie tin. A layer of berries

then apple, more berries, and more apple and the pie toped off with thin pastry. With a spoon

mum makes a laughing month then a fancy edge with a fork. Finally she smears egg white on to

make a crisp crust. Into the oven and then onto the table. Yum. I bet they were the best pies for

miles. One reason for our victory over the black berry prickles was the leggings Dad made from

old railway blinds. He made them for our cowboy games. He called them ‘chaps’. They had a

fringe on the outside of the leg with a loop at the top for the belt to go through, Even though we

only wore shorts under the chaps we could walk into the bushes to get the big juicy berries.

First we had a craze for spinning tops. For a while cap guns were all the rage. Six shooters

mostly. Then it was marbles and my Dad got me a big ball bearing. He says just because he

has to go to work he still thinks about us. My ‘steely’ was a sure winner at ‘ringsy’. Some of the

kids have boards with slots cut in. If you shoot a 'glassy‘ through a narrow slot you win five and

get your own marble back. You win less for the wider slots and loose the marble if you hit the

board. Kites really flew up on Newdick’s paddock, on the crest of Arch Hill. The wind was fresh

and steady. We pinch chalk from school to mark out the hopscotch. We have great fun getting

people to talk when they are on the square marked dumbsy. The rules are very involved and

seem to change all the time. It was the same when you touched down in a rugby game

someone would say no you have to have both hands on the ball, no score. Or forward pass,

scrum back at the 25. Dad gave us a long rope so we had two ropes turning and it was hard to

be inside the twirling ropes for long. When we started cricket in the street we drew the wickets

on Pop Phillips‘ garage door. He swore at us so we got a kid we normally did not play with to

bring a Kerosene box, which became our wickets. Trouble was if he did not get a dig, guess

what? He ran home with the box! Then we turned to playing hockey and marked out a field in

Yates’s paddock. The kids from Second and Third Avenues came to play us. We got a fright

when we saw their sticks! They had tin nailed on them to counter the wear on the road. They

won!

The little farm across the road had a milking shed with two bails and another shed where the

cream gets separated from the milk. We watched all the things the farmer did and got used to

being near the cows in the shed. Cows have a warm musty smell. We make sure they don’t

stand on our feet; after all they have four feet to control. When the cow is being milked its head

is in the bails and munches on hay, so we can stroke it and even pull on the teats. When the

farm water tanks were thrown out we got inside and rolled all over the paddocks until the bottom

gave out. We made a hut in an open drain that fed into the creek. First we put an old farm gate

to make the floor then we laid some planks across to make a roof. This we covered with sods

and plenty of grass. We even made a fireplace where we cooked apple fritters! But the best of

all we could watch the fan-tails swooping to catch the mossies and sand flies that hung over the

creek. There were huge dragonflies hovering about too. Their wings were so pretty, light blue

sprinkled with gold dust. We were never sure about them biting so we kept well clear.

Kingfishers came to snatch a wriggling tadpole or an unlucky frog, all in a blaze of colour. Then

on our travels we found a big ‘hut’, an empty house. Some missionaries must have lived there

because we found Bibles and bows and arrows in a cupboard. Swish, the arrows flew out the

upstairs windows and we were in a Norman castle. Next the tin bath was unhitched from the

pipes and we sailed down the stairs until our bruises told us it was time to stop. The curtain rods

were the next things we noticed. They were made from an Australian hard wood so with Robin

Hood in mind we took one each.

When the creek that took the rain water from Newton, Arch Hill and the Kingsland gullies was

made into a concrete culvert we became a daily audience. After school we watched as men built

wooden walls and a ‘roof’ and poured concrete. The concrete was mixed on a large wooden

platform. The mix was done dry then a hole was made in the middle for the water. Exactly the

same as mixing a cake! Then a circle of shovelers worked fast to prevent the water escaping.

Sand bags were placed further up stream to hold the water back until the had set. Another gang

of men set up railway lines and delivered tub loads of clay from the hillsides. The culvert was

covered in and a good crop of gorse soon grew over our creek. Dad removed the fly wire

screens from our windows No more mossies. (see the house photo)

Our lavatory was my responsibility. Dad showed me how it worked. When someone pulls the

chain a lever lifts a bell shaped cast iron thing which dad called a valve. This allows water to

pass from the cistern to the pan below. Then the valve sits on the bottom of the cistern and

seals off the incoming water. This is where it became tricky. As the water level rises 21 copper

float in the shape of a ball forces a lever to close another valve. Dad bent the lever to stop the

water when the cistern was 3A full. Over time the bell shaped thing grew barnacles that spoilt

the seal. And that’s where I come in. My job is to turn off the water, dismantle the main valve

and clean it. Dad said the added weight of the water helped the seal and created an air lock‘

How can you lock air? Water cost money so there I was saving the family a fortune.

Saturday dinner is our big feed each week. Mum does a roast with lots of baked potatoes,

onions, carrots, pumpkin, kumara and Yorkshire pudding with lashings of gravy. And that’s

followed with a huge steam pudding with treacle dripping down the side. The way we do it in our

family, we all sit at the table and Mum serves up each course. You eat what you get. If you don't

like something a brother or sister will soon eat it for you. Then as we settled down to an after

dinner chat Mum would sit down to her meal. They were great times; Dad quizzed us about

school and how we understood life, what we aimed for and how we would get there. I never told

about getting the ‘cuts’ each day from Miss Sykes for the imagined bad things I might do that

day. How I used to sit with my hands under my armpits until the pain eased. And the girls gave

sorry looks and the boys were relieved that they were not victims. No, there were things you just

got on with. The family made up for it with lots of banter and Mum joining in between bites. But

sometimes just on dinner time a man would turn up selling the Worker‘s Weekly. We never

noticed but it was Mum's plate full that he ate. No wonder, we were entertained. We watched as

the ‘guest’ dipped his knife into the saltcellar then tapped the knife with his fork sprinkling salt

over his food. We all tried it. Another man always had a puzzle. ‘Why do you see your face the

right way up on one side of a spoon and upside down on the other’? I suppose a new face at the

table lifted us all, especially on those blue, steely days in winter. That is when I am busy

repairing shoes. Under the house Dad has set up a bench with a wooden vice, where I make

toys and things. Its there that the families shoes and football boots are repaired. I hate it. Jim

plays lots of soccer and needs new sprigs all the time, the ones I make are never good enough.

Our Dads great, he took us down to the Auckland railway station in behind the Post Office to

see a circus being unloaded. They used the Elephants to move the railway wagons! Another

time we went to Mechanic's Bay to see the flying boat that came all the way from America and

refueled at Pago Pago, that’s in Samoa. We looked it up in our school atlas. One of Dad's

workmates had written away for a G-man’s badge. He was the first to go aboard ahead of all the

welcoming party. My Dad let us in on the joke and we laughed all the way home.

Sometimes we don’t laugh, like when a submarine could not surface in the Mersey River and

the men could not get out because the painters had painted over the air valves. The men kept

knocking with hammers to call for help. Then there was the scow that sank in a storm entering

our harbour in a gale. We heard all this on our radio and cried. Neighbours who came to the

door thought we had visitors when they heard a strange voice. Dad bought it with money he got

for a safer handle he designed for ‘La’ railway wagons. A shunter was killed when he was

unable to grab the handle because it was covered with a tarpaulin. The new one allowed the

tarp to fit in behind. The radio had a magic eye so you could tune it in just right. It became our

god, we listened to quizzes and plays and all the wonderful music!

There is a slogan painted on the school wall in Western Springs Road and another near the

letterbox in Kingsland Avenue. They say, ‘Don’t buy Japanese goods!‘ my Dad did it. He says

Japan is going to fight us. Our teacher said he's wrong. True, I asked him in the playground. Oh

well, the teacher should know, he's even got a car! We haven‘t got a car and even if we had one

my father can only ride horses and sail wooden ships. We went to see one at the wharf. A

Spanish one, with three masts. Dad spoke to them in Spanish and they all wanted to come

home with us for a feed. Dad said quick, let’s go. He told us some of what the sailors said. He

made them laugh when he said. ‘Steel men in wooden ships and wooden men in steel ships.’

Mr. Snell, the headmaster, we like him. He gave the school a talk about how to speak properly.

We are not to hum and har between words. We don’t any way. We do say shite and some other

bad words. Billy Tocker can’t speak without swearing. He shuts up in front of the teachers. They

think he is dumb. But he, Mr. Snell, whistles. Any word that ends with an S comes out with a

whistle We sit cross-legged on the asphalt and count them. When I told Dad about the hum and

har talk he said he probably meant it for the teachers. I can’t figure it out, why not just tell them?

He could also tell them not to growl. Don’t slouch; head up, shoulders back, comb your hair!

Look alive there! We are cold and hungry and some are bare foot as we march into class to the

beat of a drum. It’s called a kettledrum and has a tin skin because the real skin wore out. I'll

never get to beat the drum so I don’t care if the tin breaks too. Rat-a-tat---tat it goes, and swing

your arms. More orders, but we love it and sing God save our gracious King. Stick him in the

belly with a safety pin. God save the old tomcat. But I did get a go on the May pole, once. We

had to weave in and out so that the ribbons made a pattern around the pole All to do with spring

and people being together. The teachers all smiled when Mr. Snell told us that. They have to

smile because he is their boss.

I seemed to break fingernails more than most. I asked my father why do we have nails? He took

me to the chook yard and just stood watching the hens scratching in the dirt. Huh, we don’t

scratch around for bugs and worms, even I know that. Dad just stood and watched, then he

went back to reading his book. He never did anything about the chooks after he made the hen

house and the run. That was Mum's work. She had names for each one and made them hot

mash in the winter. Jim and I concreted the floor with cement we got from the pipe works near

Morningside railway station. That fooled the rats and made it easier to clean the poop from

under the roosts. When a non-layer was about to have its head chopped off Dad would get me

to tie its legs together. While Mum boiled the copper he would whack the poor bird across the

neck with the axe and one of us would get the job of burying the head, yuck! Mum would dunk it

in the hot water and pluck the smelly feathers off. Then and this is weird, she would dress it?

Stuff it with breadcrumbs, herbs and chopped unions and put the still naked bird in the oven.

Audrey would never eat the chook and hunger helped the others, so long as no one mentioned

its name. Death came in many forms. We heard a cat crying in pain when we were on our way

to the Western Springs pump house. We crossed the creek and there was the cat all covered in

blood and writhing around So Dave and I lifted the biggest boulder we could find and dropped it

fair and square on to the eat. We figured it must have been run over by a car.

Mr. Yates yells at us when we hold a stick to his corrugated iron fence as we run past. It makes

a beaut noise. One day as we turned the corner into Fourth Avenue we don’t rattle the fence,

we just stop and look. There‘s a man on a huge horse. He wears an oilskin hat and coat and

leggings down to his big boots. Over his shoulder there‘s a huge whip. That’s what catches our

eye. The handle hangs in front and draped over his shoulder and almost trailing to the ground is

this plaited leather whip. 'Can ya crack it for us Mr Kevin has to show he knows all about it. The

man grins and tells us to stand back, the horse might shy. He does a double crack and the

horse wiggles its ears. He in turn asked us where the Pitman’s lived. We told him the next

Avenue, third house on the other side. He looked at each of us, tipped his hat, swung the horse

and cantered away. We never saw him again. But he stayed with us. We made whips by plaiting

string and we made them crack too. The best whips were lily stalks, the ones that had not

become flowers. When we crept up to the horses while they sheltered from the sun, under the

gum trees and gave them a whack, didn't they go! Dick copped a kick under the chops once but

he was OK. I often had to jump the fence to get out of the way. We made a gap in the fence by

twisting two strands together with a stick.

Mr. Yates planted blue gums along his paddock bordering Herring’s farm. The open fields

provided seeds and insects for a host of birds. In the evening clouds of starlings swooped and

swirled in the air before roosting in the gums. They twittered and rustled about, settling down for

the night. We boys took great-delight in whacking a tree trunk with a branch to set the birds

flying in disarray before settling down again.

My Dad’s a hard man; he says we kids need to know the value of work. ‘After your brush with

electricity we will make sure this house is properly earthed.' This I soon found meant driving a

length of pipe into the ground and joining it to the meter-box with a thick copper wire. Out came

our big hammer the one that I could hardly lift. ‘I'll start it, you keep hitting until the top is a

hands breadth from the ground‘. I had to stand on a box. At first it was easy going but soon, as

Dad explained, the friction, whatever that is, gripped the pipe. Dad sat on the grass and had a

smoke. Every time I slowed down for a rest he would call out ‘two more!‘ My arms ached and

my chest nearly burst. Why are fathers so hard on their sons? And then he sends me off to get

a tin of water. This I have to pour down the pipe until it stops going down. ‘Then come in for a

cup of tea like a grown up‘. But I am not so sure. If having your arms ache, your throat dry from

breathing hard, your heart pounding like mad and your chest heaving, is grown up---I will stay a

boy and love my Dad.

By the time we get to Standard Four no one cares what sort of ink well you have. I'm still so mad

about this ink thing I went and dipped Jean Ball‘s pigtail in my ink well. And what does Jean do?

Silly idgit, turns to talk to Gwen and ink goes all over her blouse. You're not supposed to talk in

class. Anyway, Miss Shaw noticed the ink stains as she prowled around the room. This time I

was sent to Mr. Harris who, great lump gives me the cuts across the hand. Nearly lost both

thumbs. Jim is in his class and he said he has never seen Mr. Harris jump of the floor before. I

wished he'd crashed through the bloody floor and ended up in the basement. He has got a

stupid moustache. Eddy Herring says one of his eyebrows has come down for a drink. We all

giggle and run away spluttering when we see him in the playground. It’s worse when you have

to take the crates of milk to his room and Eddy says here’s the drinks, Sir. If Miss Shaw leaves

the room while we drink our milk I put the straw down to the bottom of the bottle and drink the

milk leaving the cream which when shaken like mad turns into butter, magic! Miss Shaw is

standard four, we like her. She's not as good as Miss Bull standard three; I was one of her pets

because I could draw. She took me in her little car to her house near the Avondale racecourse

and her mother gave me a glass of lemonade. She never whacked any one. I even pinched a

bunch of daffodils from Mr. Yates’s paddock for her. Some snitch in School Road pimped on

me. Mr. Yates drags me off from the classroom up First Avenue. to the cop shop yelling blue

murder but Mr. Maglone let me off with a warning.

We loved our quarterstaffs. The curtain rods we got from the empty house in Morningside. We

carved them with notches and stood them by our beds. Dad was given some tomato plants by a

workmate. When he planted them he took our precious staffs for the plants to grow on. We

objected, but he said ‘it’s your choice, cracked heads or nice fresh tomatoes.’ Then, after a bit,

he suggested we could find bamboo poles to win our staves back. He was good on

compromise, my Dad. The plants grew to a good size. loaded with tomatoes, laterals pruned

and supported on our prized staffs. We were busy searching for suitable bamboo when one day

our sister Audrey came home crying. Bruiser Morris had tried to kiss her. Jim, Norman and I

looked at each other and made a dash for the garden. Out came three stakes, over fell three

tomato plants and off we went. We caught up with Bruiser by Mrs‘ Wise’s fence. We took to him

with our quarterstaffs and gave him a few whacks. The next day the local copper came to the

house. He leaned his bike against the fence and hung his bicycle clips on the handlebars. Then

he tapped his chest to see that he had his notebook in his tunic pocket. ‘Sit you down Mr.

Maglone, you’ll have a cup of tea? Our mother had cause to know the local policeman. People

linked us with pranks and missing fruit. ‘And now about these lads of yours Misses they have

done damage to young Bruiser, but we can overlook that. Have them repair Mrs. Wises’ fence.

They have knocked several palings off bailing up the boyo. Tell your buckos no more shelalies!

Tanks, ha scone t’would be nice. We carefully replaced the stakes. The plants had broken. Mum

made some of her best ever chutney from the green tomatoes. And Dad, well, he was amazed

when three plants just died on him. He never claimed to be a good gardener and we got our

quarterstaffs back!

Some medical people came to the school to test and measure us. Height, weight, what weights

we could lift, how many skips we could do in a minute and other tests to decide on endurance,

whatever that is. You know what? I am the third strongest boy in the school! Trouble is they told

the whole school and the bigger boys did not believe them. I'm really scared and I am in

standard four. bigger than me and he‘s been in lots of fights. I wish he would back off but I know

deep down he won’t. The thing is, if I win then the kids will say that skinny Gale kid beat Merv

Brash. If I lose they might say the skinny, ginger headed kid put up a good fight. In any case he

will find others that give in, to bully. I am scared all right and try to hide it but I am not going to

run away. Merv‘s father taught him how to box and he goes around saying ‘put up ya dooks‘ and

'out for the count‘. The way he got me was to get his mates to form a circle around me. They

pushed me from one to the other and then he was there. It seemed the whole school was

chanting fight, fight, fight and I knew it was happening. Whack, a punch to the side of the head

sent me reeling and the blows kept on. biff whack, shite I'll go blind! My eyebrow is split, my first

scar. Blood fills my eye and I do see red. If only I could find him. The few hits I make skate of

him like gentle pats. The circle is bigger now and I have room to dodge and circle around. If only

a teacher would come and break it up. I'm punching at his arms to protect my head and I ‘hear’

my father say ‘two more hits!’ and I try to keep going. My legs wobble and the ground is inviting.

By pure luck one leg catches his and he falls. Clonk! The sound is music to me as his head

dents the warm asphalt and I fall upon him. Dad 'calls‘ again 'Don’t go for the face, they always

guard that, hit the breast bone!‘ And I do, with both fists as hard and as fast as I can. His mates

pulled me off and helped Merv to his feet. glad its over, luck was on my side. A week later Edger

Wells told me that every time Merv breathes he's in real pain. Gosh my father knows some

nasty things.

After that the only other boy to test the ‘third strongest‘ was Eddie Herring, again by pure luck he

suffered a blood- nose. The word went around the school like a grass fire; keep away from that

red headed scraper! And I am not, I just want to make model aircrafts and draw and raid

orchards. My false reputation followed me to Kowhai Intermediate School but thankfully no one

from the other contributing schools tested me.

I am too big to be a jockey and not big enough to be a decent horse so I don’t get to take part in

cock fights. Just as Well. Only once I was a horse with Billy Taylor the jockey and he got his arm

around my neck‘. He nearly chocked me to death as he was being pulled off. Another game we

play is called Bull Rush. The biggest boy in the school stands in the middle of the football field.

The boys in the game gather at one end of the field. Someone calls out ‘charge’ and we all rush

to the other end. He catches one then another each time we run from end to end. There comes

a time when there are more boys in the middle than runners. They try to crash though, punching

and swearing. They get Well beaten as they are captured. Shirts are ripped, noses bleed, eyes

are blackened and teachers growl. Sewing machines are threaded up by angry mothers.

People go all quiet when someone dies. The blinds are down all day for about a week and we

go past the house quietly. When a funeral goes past on the main road we stand quietly on the

edge of the footpath and men take of their hats. Jim and I sometimes look at the pictures in a

book called ‘War What For?’ There are heaps of dead soldiers in France. If Mum catches us she

threatens to hide the book. Then she cries. Dad has some books hidden behind the hot water

cylinder. Seamen bring them from America. A man named Marx writes them, but he is not in the

Marx Br0ther’s films, besides there are no pictures so we don’t read them.

Once a galloper came to the paddocks to join the trotters and brood mares. Mr. Herring said

he's broken down and we can ride him if we like. He even gave us a bridle. Dave and Kev

boosted me onto his back and the horse just burst into a gallop. No saddle and a bridle that was

about to break and the brute’s mouth was real hard. Sawing the bit had no effect. Worse, the

backbone was like a picket fence. And go! It was far from broken down. I was glad to fall off and

lay gasping for breath. It stood, waiting for a remount! Not me. While I lay there I saw a stoat.

What a neat little animal. As I watched he sniffed the air and was gone. I won’t tell my mates, it’s

my secret and they can get the bridle off too.

We often go to the stables at the bottom of School Road. The horses have a lot of flies on them

and they pong. The men get us to put on boxing gloves. They perch on the rails and yell, like,

‘get him with a right hook‘ or ‘lead with a straight left‘. lt’s stupid, if you go down onto a heap of

horseshit, who wants that? The trainers say they will make men of us. It’s better to be a kid and

lay on your back in the long grass while a Tiger Moth circles in the sky. I'd like to be a pilot and

be free of the ground. Dad says we will all be able to fly around the world one day, I hope so.

We heard of some monkeys in Newton Road. Ken says he knows where they are and we set off

after school. Sure enough there they are chained to wires and acting like guard dogs. A man

said watch out they bite; we could see that when they showed us their teeth by way of a

welcome. We chucked stones at them and a woman came out and chased us away, silly cow!

Then Dick said he knew of a better thing and we followed him to a house near Eden Park.

Guess what, there was a kid fenced in on his verandah. He ran up and down when he saw us

and we waved but he only grunted. He pulled faces at us too so we went home. I don’t know

what’s worse, monkeys on chains or a poor kid behind wire netting? I want to be a pilot or I will

go to sea, then I will see monkeys in the jungle like my Dad did up the Amazon River. We have

this huge turtle shell that Dad got up the Amazon River‘ We spin each other around in it. I

believe him ‘cause my Dad. Lionel says bullshit. He is only jealous; his father has never been

out of the country. He thinks a ferry ride across the harbour to Devonport is overseas.

Our trip to the wharf is quite simple. We go up the steps in Commercial Road then walk to the

top of Pitt Street and hop on the Farmer’s free tram that takes us nearly to the bottom of Hobson

Street. Then we walk down to the wharves after buying some fish hooks in the Farmers. We

mimic the sea gulls, gilly, gilly, gilly to tell them we have arrived in their world. There are some

steps near the Ferry Buildings that go down to the water so we don’t need long lines to catch

sprats. We go across to Devonport every time we fish from the wharves. Just hop on the scales

put in a penny and out comes a card the same size as the ferry ticket. The man on the gate

clicks it. We scramble up the gangway and race to look down into the engine room. Then when

a whistle blows and the gangway is raised and the ropes slackened and hauled aboard the

engine bell rings 'slow ahead‘ and the mighty engine pulses alive Then another ding, ding, ding

and the piston rods fly, the whole ship quivers, we are wrapped! Full speed ahead! And how we

envy the men stoking the fire, their bodies glisten in the firelight as the coal swishes off their

banjos. Up we rush, to the top deck near the wheelhouse as the ferry threads through the

merchant ships at anchor. We look up at the Westerly wind dragging smoke from the funnel,

sending black clouds tumbling up the harbour. We are at Devonport. Ropes scream around

bollards and the piles get a friendly bump as the engines reverse, pulling her up like a huge

horse. We stay on board while passengers troop down the gangway and North Shore people

begin their journey to the city. As the ferry leaves the wharf we rush to the bow. Homeward

bound! We join the throng down the gangway and pass through the gate not looking at the ticket

man and feeling ever so clever.

We get lots of homework and Dad sees that we do it. He helps with the maps so that proves he

knows about the Amazon. He draws pictures too for people that come in the evening. Once I

held my hand so that he could make a drawing of it then he drew a little soldier as if he stood in

the hand. (leaflet in Turnbull Library ms-papers-5568-1)

Up on the top road lives my new mate Jack Wrigley. I had given up on Billy Taylor he had no

sense of adventure and spends hours combing his hair. Jack said an orchard in Western

Springs Road was worth a try. We decided to raid it at lunchtime. Well, Jack knew his apples all

right, they were huge. He swung up into the tree and tossed the biggest down. We soon had

enough to fill our shirts when plonk, Jack fell out of the tree and broke his arm. ‘Hurts like mad‘

was all he said as we headed back to school where Jack lay down on the footy field and I went

to get a teacher. I gave my apples away as I went. While Mr. Harris got the first aid gear I ran

back to the ‘accident’ where Jack slipped me his apples keeping one to eat at the hospital. Mr.

Harris helped Jack to his feet and put a sling over his shoulder and around his arm. Off they

went to the Auckland Hospital and the plaster room. Jack's parents were subscribers to the

Auckland Star so they received five pounds for the accident and they would also get the same

for a broken window!

The wonderful thing about Kowhai Intermediate School is that kids came together from several

primary schools. New friendships formed and we met a new type of teaching. We drew up

timetables and found ourselves in specialist rooms. We would be here for two years, then

another melting pot, the Secondary Schools! And then again, some would go to university and

others to work. Welcome to the world. Science was great; Mr. Bell did all sorts of experiments.

Collapsing kerosene tins! He printed the notes in our exercise books with an inkpad. We had to

do the drawings that went with the notes and the experiment. A calf with two heads was born on

my mate Edgar Wells’ parent’s farm. It was on display in our science room. spooky. Miss

Armstrong was my teacher in form one and the best was Mr. Wooley our woodwork teacher. I

managed to upset Mr‘ Morrison the metalwork teacher when we had to design and make a

nameplate for our house or to put on the bed head. I chose to make a plate with U37. Any hint

of anything pro-German raised eyebrows so I had to explain that it was my name upside down.

Poor man, he thought he had caught an enemy agent!

In form two (2B Mod) we had Mr. Chase from Canada, he told us all about birch bark canoes

and Grey Owl and beavers. Then when he left we got Mr. Menzies. He made us work hard, to

catch up, he said. When it was our drawing lesson he just put a daffodil in a jar, told us to draw

it and went to the staff room and had a cup of tea. That’s when I shot around the room doing the

other kids drawings, sometimes I even got a toffee. A group of us went to the Railway

workshops at Otahuhu. Guess what, I touched a rivet and it was still HOT and burnt my fingers!

We picked up bits of welding rods and we each got a nozzle from the sand blast man. He was

inside a leather suit and had a helmet on and his own air supply. Mr. Wells the head master had

me in his office to broadcast to the classrooms all about the trip. I felt pretty special and just

wished Miss Sykes could hear me. My Dad works there but I only saw him once and he waved.

Mum came to the ‘open day’ and she saw my jewel box on display in the woodwork room. It has

an inlay of red gum and I cut the heads of four clothes pegs for the feet. Mums going to line it

with padded silk when I bring it home.

Payday is every two weeks and that is when the whole family goes to town, We take the tram to

Queen Street and visit all the shops from Custom Street up as far as Wellesley Street.

McKenzies and Woolworths where there are rows of cash registers and people standing behind

the counters ready to serve customers. Mum gives us each some money so that we can buy

things for school, pencils, rubbers and for me, drawing blocks and pastels. One clothing shop

has an overhead series of wires where the money and dockets ‘fly’ to the clerks. Another had

tubes that sucked the docket and money to the office. The change by return blow!

One night was very special, (27th February 1935) Mum and the three youngest took the tram

home leaving Jim and I with Dad. We walked over to the Central Post Office and met up with

several hundred people who were about to march all the way to the Domain. The reason for this

march was to draw attention to the Spanish Civil War and the rise of Fascism in Europe. I did

not understand this at the time but my father’s support was good enough for me. As I soon

found out he was one of the main organizers, the secretary of the Movement Against War and

Fascism. The marchers had about 50 torches and these were soon alight and we began the

long walk. At the Domain the torches were thrown in a pile to make a nice bon-fire. Then we

heard a couple of speeches and a hymn or two and songs that were often sung in our house.

It was not long after America joined the war that their servicemen swarmed into Auckland on

R&R. Strange things began to happen in our quiet street in the Kingsland gully. For a start,

where the girls played hopscotch and rounders, Jeeps were parked and strange voices could be

heard. The house next to ours, number 36, began to host weekend parties. Mr. Morris worked

on the wharf where he met sailors and marines who he invited to his home. All in the interests of

giving the men a good time. Mrs. Morris was a great cook; sausage rolls, scones and apple pies

smothered in cream from the farm across the road welcomed the guests Crates of beer clinked

as they were hoisted on to the front verandah and cartons of cigarettes appeared as if from

nowhere. There were three teenage girls in the family and they brought their girl friends along,

naturally the Americans thought this was a great idea. There was singing and dancing till the

small hours. ‘Roll out the barrel; we’ll have a barrel of fun, ’cause the gangs all here, Knees up

mother Brown etc’.

The house on the other side, Number 40, was empty. After Mr. Adams had been ‘called up’ his

wife had moved to her parent’s home. Mr. Adams never even said hello but he did smile now

and then. He worked in an office and wore the same brown suit every day. My Dad said he has

changed one uniform for another. Number 40 was an old tired, wooden villa, two bedrooms,

lounge, dining room, kitchen and a bathroom. Like ours the lavatory was out the back next to

the washhouse. The house, like several in the area, had been painted a colour that reminded

me of a railway wagon. The front and back lawns and the hedges were overgrown. A real fire

hazard my Mum said.

We were surprised when a short, somewhat plump lady came to the back door and introduced

herself, Mrs. Minogue. She looked Irish too, sandy hair and blue eyes and a hard to place

accent. I noticed the rings on her fingers, all that gold and she wore several strands of beads

that rustled as she moved. She said she was going to run a guesthouse for servicemen who

had been wounded in the Pacific battles, to help their recovery. And would my brother Jim, who

she never left her eyes off, cut the long grass, back and front? After a couple of hours Jim was

glad to be back in our place and a glass of lemonade. It was hard work but she paid well. The

summer school holidays were in full swing so Jim was happy to earn pocket money. He even

considered buying one of Mr. Morris’ lady dog’s pups. We had seen the puppies drinking from

their mother, but Mum said it’s another mouth to feed.

Number 40 remained empty for over a week. We had forgotten Mrs. Minogue, until we noticed

that there were people in the house. From our dining room window we could see the back door

and the back yard. Whoever they were, they were quiet. Gradually, without too much spying we

decided that there were always two men and two young women and that from time to time the

folk changed. Now and then we would see a man walking up and down the path smoking or

laying on the grass. The men just lay on their backs, staring at the sky. They came and went at

night as far as we could tell. Some times in the day time Mrs. Minogue came in a taxi with all

manner of groceries and drinks that the driver helped her with. The driver seemed to know her

they laughed and chatted like old friends. Whenever Jim mowed the lawns Mrs. Minogue

watched as he worked. She even managed to lure him, all hot and sweaty, into the Washhouse

one day, where the old copper was heating up for the weekly wash. Jim was seeking an escape

when one of the girls arrived who told Mrs. Minogue to leave the lad alone and called her a

rotten old witch. Then, Mrs. Minogue yelled at the girl to get out and don’t come back. It was all

very mysterious.

One man began a daily stroll along the street and that’s how we got to talk to him. He spoke

quietly and slowly; he said his name was Joe. We boys asked him all sorts of questions about

the war. From his answers, which came after long pauses, he made it plain he did not want to

go back to the war zone. Marines, the shock troops of the American armed forces, took part in

the bloodiest battles and Joe was not too sure about his chances of surviving the next one. He

had been wounded but he said he had no hatred for the Japanese soldiers. We found this

strange as we were told to expect an invasion any day and there was constant talk of the ‘yellow

peril’. We continued our war games with wooden guns that had been supplied to the home

guard. Lionel’s father gave them to us and told us to practice drill, to learn how to crawl about

the paddocks across the road and to hide in ditches.

Joe never came into the street at the weekend. We thought he did not want to meet the men

who partied at number 36. He said their type of music offended him, he was he said, a ‘blues

man‘ from New Orleans. There were so many things we wanted to know about his America and

Joe said it was not all cowboys and Indians, not like the movies. He described his childhood, so

different to ours, the grinding poverty. That he could hardly read and write, his love of music,

how he had never had a regular job until he joined the Marines.

Joe chuckled when we asked about number 40, he said we were too young to understand and

that we should ask our fathers. When he said that he laughed outright. Then Joe told us he

would be returning to his unit and that two sailors and their lady friends would arrive in a day or

two.

The last time we met, Joe asked a question. ‘What is a bayonet?’ Well, we all knew the answer,

so we described it and how it fitted on to a rifle. Before Kevin got to the gory part Joe said, as he

walked away and we sensed that this was goodbye ‘It’s a weapon with a worker at each end‘.

At Seddon Memorial Technical College I enrolled in the Engineering course and found myself in

E.l.A. The school was basically pre-apprentice training, not that there were many

apprenticeships to go around. No sooner had school begun than I jumped out of a tree and cut

my foot on an upturned, rusty basin that was without a bottom. A slice of sole hung down like a

tongue. This put me on crutches and away from lessons for about two weeks. When at last it

came time to walk on the healed foot I was not too sure but a nurse took me firmly by the arm

and marched me down the ward. Books were another problem; I had to line up at the book room

for battered textbooks that had been left behind. The lady behind the counter looked down on us

hard-up-kids with a smirk.

Dr O'Shanasey our maths teacher (room 1) wandered off the subject whenever war was

mentioned. Mr. de Lisle (room 3) explained levers and moments, it was called mechanics, we

expected to be taught about motor cars. The next year the course name was changed to

Technical Engineering and I found myself in T.E.7 the top fourth form class. Bertie Adams (room

91) had taught maths for so long he had finally got the hang of it and flew through the lessons

so that I had no idea what he was on about. I found a red cloth covered log book in a desk and

slowly figured out how to use it. Mr. Malloy (room 5) taught pulleys, mechanical advantage and

friction. He kept my lab book to show next years students the standard he required. ‘Spidder‘

Webber guided us through the mysteries of electricity. Ohm's Law and transposing formulas.

The practical classes, where we each made a knife in form three and worked on lathes in form

four and Technical Drawing (room 93) with Jackie Brookes, were my favourites. Mr. Mitchell our

English teacher (form four) opened the world of Shakespeare, Blake, and Shelley for me.

The Gym class proved a disaster. Percy Lever, a bad tempered little man always put me with a

larger opponent in the boxing lessons. Our playground was very small, all asphalt. On fine days

we could have our lunch in Albert Park. On wet days we were herded into the Gym. Percy gave

lessons on the human body. He had a number of charts, muscles, blood supply and the

skeleton. When it came to bones Percy explained that he was short due to a lack of calcium.

Then he explained how a skull was made of several segments of interlocking bone. He went on

to say that if we found a Maori skull, out in the bush somewhere, we could fill it up with dry peas

then add water, as the peas expanded the skull would fall apart. One boy at the back of the gym

asked if it worked on an English skull. Percy was livid and stamped out, muttering. But he did

show us the basics of Indian club exercises and that’s when things went wrong. When I arrived

home I told Mum about this new exercise and reached for her two precious art nouveau vases

to demonstrate. Boof, one shattered into a hundred pieces when they met behind my back!

Mum never said a word though she must have been most upset. Dad, when he got home had

his tea then set me to draw and dimension an Indian club from memory. Then I was told to do

jobs around the house to the value of a tin of tobacco and a packet of cigarette papers. When

this was collected he took the tobacco and the drawing to the wood turner at the workshops and

after a week or so he brought home a pair of kauri Indian clubs. Then, to my amazement he

took me on to the back lawn and taught me several magical exercises. I never did them at

school for fear of showing off and I sensed that the Gym instructor would not be pleased.

The only school sports race I remember was the cycle race. We had to sit on our bikes, held

steady by a mate, over on the back straight. I asked the biggest boy in the school to be my

supporter and to give me a good push when the gun went off. He sent me flying, I could hardly

keep up with the pedals! As I turned into the home straight I could hear other riders catching up.

My legs were ready to give up but there was Ken Pitman calling for me to keep going! ‘You can

do it!‘ he yelled. I came third.

It was ‘Bubby’ Sutton who told us about the chemist. We knew that worm tablets and Bates’

Salve came from his shop and we had no love for either hot salve plonked on a boil or evil

tasting tablets. But ‘Bubby’ had a well kept secret. The chemist sold Vimbo Tonic Wine. two

shillings and sixpence a quart bottle, wrapped in a brown paper bag. We immediately gathered

money from various sources, some illegal. Lionel was elected to brave the chemist. saying the

Vimbo was for his mother. ‘Take it straight home, mind’. The chemist knew he broke the law.

We dashed off to our hut in the drain. No glasses for us, straight from the bottle! We laughed

and giggled. Dick was sick and Kevin wanted to fight Lionel over some previous slight. Dave fell

asleep and when I turned my head it took awhile for things to catch up to where I was facing.

Jim took me home to hide in the wash-house. We never told ‘Bubby’, he probably thought we

were regular customers. He’d be wrong.

We love fires. There are several ways to start a fire. You can use a magnifying glass to get the

paper started. Sometimes we burnt patterns on the bark from the gum trees. There are two

kinds of matches Safety matches and Wax Vestas. The wax matches can strike on any dry

surface, and that’s how we started our game. On city streets there are safety zones near the

tram lines for people to stand on while they wait for their tram to pull up. You may have to wait

for several trams to come and go before ‘your’ tram turned up. The trick was to stand holding a

wax match so that the passing tram would set it alight then drop it before a parent saw the

lighted match. Once we set a little fire going so that we could jump over the flames. Trouble was

the little pile of dry grass was in a hay paddock and soon the whole crop was ablaze.

Neighbours came to the rescue with wet sacks. Jim had taken his shoes off to jump the fire and

when we found them after the fire, they had shrunk to half their size and were as hard as a rock!

Gee Mum got angry that time and it was not often she got mad with our Jim.

My brother Jim had the best birth date, December 18"‘. The day school ended each year School

was wonderful, not to be missed. The long hot days of summer called and we were ready. We

just about lived at Western Springs and we explored every part. In the pine forest we found a

patch of bright orange mushrooms. We broke one to see how it was made. Secretly each of us

wanted to believe that elves and gnomes lived there. We never saw any little people, but we left

them, in case. Following the creek and still in the pines we came upon a strong corrugated iron

fence to keep the animals in and hard up kids out. Where the creek enters the Z00 there is a

very strong steel grid and we could see the hippos lazing about or fighting each other. As their

huge bodies charged about the water surged and foamed so we had no wish to enter there. The

fence to the antelope pen was a different matter. All we had to do was burrow down through the

pine needles and make a hole under the corrugated iron. Over the years the deer had hollowed

the earth near the fence so we just about fell into their pen. Then when the coast was clear we

dashed across to the gate, let ourselves into the Zoo proper, replace the latch and away we

went. A street photographer snapped Jim and me, by a drinking fountain. Mum found the card in

a shirt pocket and that is how we ended up in the family album and our dangerous ‘game’

discovered. We really liked the Zoo. The smell was bad of course, but we just accepted that.

The bears pacing up and down in their pits made us sad, but we soon cheered up at the

monkey’s cages. They were like us only they climbed their tree branches faster than we did.

You have to laugh, we had climbed a pine tree that over looked the deer pen and we noticed a

man with a camera looking at the deer that were lying in the shade. We could see that he

wanted some action so we threw a few pine cones and the deer leapt up and dashed about, just

like in the wild.

Further again we went on to the reef behind the Zoo. Over the years all sorts of creatures had

made their homes in and around the rocks formed when molten lava flowed into the sea. Sea

gulls built their nests, fish found little caves to hide in and oysters and all sorts of shellfish found

places to live. We all carried a blade in those days but for once no one had a knife to prise

oysters of the rocks. We found an old piece of corrugated iron and slowly we bent a corner back

and forth till it broke and this became our ‘knife’. We took turns getting a heap of oysters and

some of the lads gathered pipis from the pockets of sand at the edge of the reef. You cannot

beat my mate Jack when it comes to lighting a fire. First he figures out which way the wind is

blowing so that he has his back to the breeze. He crouches down after gathering up dry paper,

little twigs and dry grass. Once this is lit he blows gently as bigger twigs are added. Still puffing

he gently places small branches on and around the flames. Then with a smile he squats back

on his haunches and watches the flames eat the dry wood. The roofing iron propped on several

rocks became our stove with the hissing shellfish giving of the best of smells. Everyone had a

stick so that as the shells opened they could be dragged away from the heat. A quick dunk in

the seawater then the flesh eaten while all eyes searched for the next shell to open. Our meal

came to an end as the incoming tide put out the fire and chased us home.

Behind the Zoo the creek was the dumping place for the bones that the lions had finished with

and it was there that we discovered a swarm of eels but how to catch them? Dave nailed a

couple of very big fish hooks to lengths of broom handle and bound the hooks on with wire to

make what he called a gaff. I think his brother Jack helped him. The next day we sure hooked

out some beaut eels. We tried cooking the eels on sticks but we were better catchers than

cooks.

Saturday is the best day of the week. In the afternoon if we had the money we went to the flicks.

Our heroes were Flash Gordon, Tom Mix, Tim McCoy, Buck Rogers and Johnny Weissmuller

as Tarzan. There were ‘sing-a-longs’ with a little ball bouncing across the screen to keep the

time. At a lesser level there were child stars like Shirley Temple and little Mickey Rooney. Best

of all were Charlie Chaplin, Laurel and Hardy and Buster Keaton not forgetting the wonderful

Marx Brothers! They made us laugh and to see each other. When we met someone who looked

the part we gave that person a new name. Such a one became Bartholomew the bee man. Not

only did he keep bees he was short, tubby and bald! And Mickey Rooney, there were several

like him in Kingsland. Those of us that went to the flicks retold the stories to our mates so we

were able to relive the adventures. There were three ‘bug houses’ to choose from. The Royal in

Kingsland, the Cameo in Grey Lynn and the Empress near the corner of Ponsonby Road‘

When a cowboy film was screened we took our cap guns to 'shoot' the baddies. The ushers

would chase about looking for the culprits (due to the smoke). Then to end the day we tramped

across the paddocks to the Western Springs Speedway. Someone had hacked a hole in the

fence with an axe so that’s where we entered. Another world, fumes, noise and thrills! We were

drawn to the pits between the races to see our heroes and to soak up the whole man machine

atmosphere. The smell of hot oil and fuel was exciting. Mechanics would be adjusting the

engines of the midget cars and motorbikes. The drivers in their leathers, looking very important

and drinking beer straight from the bottle. There were always a number of hangers on who

would chase us kids away to show how important they were.

Between races a truck towed a leveling device to flatten the track and another sprayed water to

‘hold’ the cinders and thus prevent us all going blind or chocking on the dust. The music played

was a mixture of rodeo and country and western A rope-in and a tie-in ---away out yonder...we

all sang along. Even as we walked home across the paddocks, we could hear the music and we

sang to keep the speedway alive. Some nights there would be patches of mist that hung over

the paddocks. When one of us ran through the mist we could only see his legs and head and

shoulders, magic!

When the ‘Hell Drivers’ came from America we were drawn to the Speedway like iron filings to a

magnet. They rode their bikes and cars over ramps and through burning walls. The OH! that

went up at each daredevil event must have been heard all over Auckland! Putt Mossman was

the leading rider. He even had a ladder on a motorbike and climbed up it while his mate drove

around the track. They had cars that ran backwards and we thought it very clever until we saw

that the bodies were on back to front.

But this was something that we could not act out the next day, so we went back to horses and

our passion for running races, which we did around the trotting track at the bottom of School

Road. We became interested in speed, human speed. My brother Jim was our best runner so

we decided to train him to win at the school sports. This is how we did it. Four or five of us

would station ourselves around the track. Then as Jim ran around, each would take turns to run

with him, to pace him. We tried all sorts of ideas. We held weights in our hands and tried lead

inner soles in our sand shoes until Dad told us about lead poisoning. The idea was to feel lighter

on race day. When it all boils down it’s once again the best machine that wins. Jim had lots of

stamina and his strong body got him to the tape ahead of the field.

My youngest brother, Norman, now he is a tough nut. He got it into his head that he would buy a

horse. He had just started secondary school at Mount Albert Grammar and one of the boarders

told him about the Pukekohe sale yards and how much a good horse might cost. Do you know

what, he took the train to the auction and bought a cob. The farmer who sold it asked Norman if

he had far to go, and when he was told only about 35 miles he gave Norman a saddle and

bridle. He clip clopped home late that night. Mum and Dad were worried sick, but there he was

half asleep, laying over the horse’s neck and pleased as Punch. He kept the horse in Herring’s

paddock, but after a week it disappeared. Norman was beside himself. He saw a notice in the

Herald, 21 horse that could only be Julius was at a farm in Hillsborough. Of he went, saddle and

all, this time by tram to the terminus and along walk. When he got home we opened our map

and right where the horse was, there was a picture of a horse! There were pictures of pigs and

turkeys on the map too but Norman was in no mood to find out.

There is a furniture factory on the corner of Dominion and New North Road; I have been

sweeping up and gluing dowels during the school holidays. The noise is unbelievable! Helping

shift the furniture in the show room was what I dreaded the most. On the way home one day I

swung my bike up the little street by Stormont and Connon’s bakeries and nearly fell off! There

were a group of men on the railway tracks, each with a sugar sack gathering up loaves of bread.

The bread came flying out a window to be quickly gathered up and then the men ran off up

Onslow Road. The window closed and it was all over in the blink of an eye. Not a crust in sight. I

met my father at the railway station and told him what I had seen. Dad said that the baker was

risking his job by helping hungry families and that I must not tell anyone. Dad said his mates

probably kept watch while he threw the bread out the window.

Jim and I decided to become ‘ball boys’ at the tennis tournament in Stanley Street. We lined up

in our white shorts, shirts and sand shoes to be chosen.

There was quite a crowd of hopefuls and we were both picked along with twenty others. We

were told to stand perfectly still, to gather the balls when the games ended, all very boring. We

were paid by the day. At the beginning we covered dozens of games each day but by the time

the semi finals were played there were less ball boys and fewer games. The man in charge

offered to pay us for each game. This meant a cut in our meager wage so we went on strike.

However three boys agreed to the new pay and others were not too sure. Jim and I were not

about to give in. It came down to a fight behind the mower shed. I gave a boy named Belsher a

good whack and he went home, blood all over his white shirt. Jim told the boss we were back,

but only on the daily pay and he agreed. When we told our father he said ‘Well, that’s your first

taste of the real world’. He advised persuasion before fists.

Another job Jim and I shared was delivering groceries on a bike. The bike had a large basket

over the small front wheel. We took turns day about but one day we were both needed in the

shop. ‘We are going to play golf’ the manager said and we noticed that he and the assistant

both had their pants tucked into their socks. ‘No deliveries today go and help Bert in the store

room’. It was not very often we were in the storeroom, probably because of the tins of biscuits,

bulk dates and raisins. The smell was enough to pivot the brain into ‘eat’ even if a young boy

was not hungry. Anyway there was Bert toiling away heaping the boxes and sacks into a heap

in the center of the room. We soon had a huge pyramid that nearly touched the ceiling. When

this was done Bill came in. This time he sent Bert to mind the shop while he, with our help

nailed pieces of packing cases over the holes in the walls and floor. For some reason he left two

or three holes uncovered. This was to us, a real mystery. The two men served the odd customer

while Jim and I dusted shelves and kept our faces under control as we ate any tid-bits we found.

After about half an hour and we were thinking it was time to go home Bill told us to mind the

shop‘ With that they both entered the storeroom with a golf club each. We could hear them

shouting and every now and then a sickening thud ‘There goes one’ ‘Over there by the window!’

‘Get the swine’. It took a good ten minutes to kill a dozen rats. Our eyes were out on stalks and

mouths agape as we listened to the slaughter. A customer came in to pay a bill and we had to

tell her the manager was away playing golf.

The footpath is our workshop when we dismantle our bikes. Sometimes we shorten the chain or

adjust the tension. To re-grease the crank shaft we have to remove the cotter pins. The trick is

to leave the nut on so that the threads do not get burred. Anyone can re-adjust the saddle or

handle bars, it takes experience to tangle with the sprockets and cranks and to adjust the

cones. The special spanners are carried in a little pouch that hangs on the saddle. And there

are often punctures to repair. A worn or damaged tyre meant we fitted internal patches called

‘boots’ nothing was wasted. The good thing about having a bike is that you can range further

than on foot. We could do more things in a day than before. We even rode to Titirangi Beach.

The road down to the beach was loose metal and steep so we slowed our bikes by dragging a

ti-tree branch.

A new boy has moved into our street. He’s from Freeman’s Bay and he has a bike like mine, a

Monarch Special. Anyway one day he asked me if I would like to go for a swim at the Wynyard

Wharf so off we went. We carried our bikes up the steps in Commercial road, and then peddled

along Great North Road. We turned into Ponsonby Road, which is fairly flat and soon we were

zooming down College Hill. Because the foot brake was worn, Frank had removed the back

mudguard so that he could jamb his left shoe onto the tyre to slow the bike down. At the same

time he stood on the right pedal to get what grip there was in the brake. His foot must have

been pretty hot but he whooped and yelled just the same. At the bottom of the hill we turned left

into Beaumont Street and cycled past the gas works. The wharf was straight ahead, past

railway wagons being loaded with coal from a coaster. Whoosh, a grab empties in a cloud of

dust and swings around to drop into the ships hold. Shovels flashed as men trimmed the coal

within the wagons. The men, in khaki shorts and boots are black from head to foot. Rivers of

sweat cutting through the dust. They yell for us to keep clear, teeth and eyes white as they

shout. We rode to where Frank’s old mates were diving from the piles at the end of the wharf.

To prove that they had made it to the bottom, each one came up with a handful of black, smelly

mud. We changed into our togs while the others asked if I could fight and what was my name.

My red hair seemed to challenge them but we jumped in and the moment passed. No mud for

me and there at the end of the wharf was the little old man from the other end of our street with

his little dog and a huge snapper, somehow I felt safe.

L.T.Gale 2010

ISBN: 978-0-473-22691-6