Previous | Contents | Next
Hay-making is hard work, but more so in those days. The grass was cut with a horse mower. If it was turned to dry this was done by hand with a pitch-fork. It was then raked into windrows with a horse-drawn tumbler rake and swept up to the stack with a tumbler-sweep. One or two men worked on top of the stack while the rest of the gang forked hay up to them. As the day wore on the stack got higher, the men more tired and the work harder.
The most sought-after job was driving the hay-rake, a job usually reserved for the very young or the very old, and, as I was the youngest, I was to have the job for several years off and on.
When that job was done, as a little fellow I usually ended up on the stack, which was no easy work with six men forking hay up to you. The hay had to be spread out fairly evenly or it wouldn’t bind and the stack would collapse, and of course the stack had to be kept in shape as it grew.
However I can remember little about hay-making while I was at the Smiths. My main contribution was to help Miss S. with the food, which we delivered to the paddock, and with milking the cows at both ends of the day.
§
Riding Mary, my first willing and spirited horse, was now well within my capability. As any rider and horse lover will appreciate, it was a tremendous thrill to be promoted from Moke to a real horse. Mary would gallop until she dropped from exhaustion — she was all heart. I had ridden her on several occasions to Hikurangi, and raced her at every opportunity, but she could never beat Jimmy Newby’s roan. Mary wasn’t built for that job but Creamy was. Creamy had a super-charger.
It was a memorable day when I was allowed to ride Creamy home and I’m sure that on that occasion, Dad’s memory notwithstanding, I was allowed to stay overnight. At any rate there was sufficient time for my purpose.
With great excitement, and as proud as a peacock. I rode up Waro to show Creamy to the locals. He attracted a lot of attention and Jimmy’s roan was soon produced for comparison. Compared to Creamy The Roan was drab but for all that it was full of spirit and go, and wouldn’t be easily beaten.
After a lot of demonstrating and prancing around we were followed by a crowd of other youngsters to the top of Boundary Road. Boundary Road made a great race track. It was a clay road, easy on the horses, and without obstructions clear through to Wilsonville.
We prepared ourselves, someone called “Ready — Set — Go!” and we were off. Creamy and the roan needed no persuading and the battle was on.
There could be no doubt about the result. Creamy pinned his ears back and almost seemed to fly. There was a pounding of hooves and exultant cries, and with the wind whistling past my ears we pulled further and further ahead of the Roan. I felt almost sorry for Jimmy. He and his roan had reigned supreme for a long time. The fastest pony in Hika was no more.
This did a lot for my self-esteem. I had never, I felt, been outstanding at anything and now I was a winner. All the discomfort, the cold, the wet, the hunger, the exhaustion, were worth-while. I had a job, and few did, and the Smiths had made me a winner. A proud boy on a proud pony.
The hardships had toughened me and given me confidence and authority I never had before. Never again did I allow myself to be subjected to the indignities imposed by the bully-boys of my childhood. I had been nick-named “Boary”, a name I hated. From then on I threatened with violence anyone who used it. I only resorted to blows once and that was soon over when the culprit decided not to pursue the matter any further.
§
Eric had left and the next boy to arrive was Harold, and this towards the end of my own stay. Harold, now long dead, told me a story about his brother. His brother had heard that a local farmer needed a boy to help on the farm, and rung the farmer to ask for a job. The farmer said to come out and see him and “let me have a look at you”.
The family lived in Whangarei and Harold’s brother would have caught the bus to Hikurangi and footed it from there. He arrived at the farm just on dusk, foot sore and weary, and knocked on the farmer’s door. The farmer himself opened the door, took one look at the boy and said, “You’re no bloody good to me — you’re too bloody small,” and slammed the door in his face.
It was a cold winter’s night for the walk back to Hikurangi. The Depression was hard but it didn’t have to be that hard.
Harold was related to the Dinsdales — possibly to the Smiths as well — and I think perhaps Harold’s father had worked for the Smiths at one stage. At any rate I don’t think his father and the Smiths were on friendly terms. When his Dad arrived to see Harold one day, we met on the road and I was most upset to see Harold’s father have what was probably an epileptic fit — an experience I will never forget.
Harold’s family were Londoners and, so the story goes, stayed with the Dinsdales when they first arrived in New Zealand. The boys were very interested in the cowshed and all the animals and would hang around during milkings with eyes popping out at all the strange sights. Harold’s mother in due course visited the cowshed herself and was horrified to see that her boys had been exposed to the sight of all those bare teats and private parts and — worst of all — the rampant sexual activity. Her boys were barred from the cowshed for some time while she came to terms with living in a strange land.
§
After eight months I left Harold with the Smiths to work for some of the kindest people I have ever known.
News travels. A neighbour heard of this poor little fellow working for the Smiths and decided to give him a break. They couldn’t afford me but when have such considerations been of any importance to people like them? The Smiths were loath to see me go and over the years made several offers of a job, but eight months were enough.
§
After I returned from the war, and while still in uniform, I took my bride-to-be to see the Smiths and Creamy, both of whom she had heard so much about. It was a sentimental journey.
The Smiths were living in a house that had been built for Mr Dinsdale and his wife years before. Whether they had bought the property or not I don’t know. The old house in which I had slept had been burnt down.
It was about 11.00am and the Smiths were at breakfast. They met us at the door with plates of porridge in their hands and spoke to us and ate as we stood in the sunshine. We weren’t invited in but I could imagine the chaotic mess inside, and didn’t know whether to be pleased or sorry about that.
Dorothy and I turned down the offer of a cup of tea and we chatted about the war and old times. That is the last I saw of two of the most interesting characters I have ever met.
Creamy we found grazing on the roadside. He was old and a mere shadow of his former self. Dorothy is a horse-lover herself. She insisted that he was still beautiful but the sting had gone.