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Jack and Maureen (not their real names ~Ian) had a poor gum-land farm, all sloping hillside except for a small area of rush-covered flat where their house was. It was a wet, bleak, inhospitable-looking place. The house contained only the bare essentials of furniture, but I did have a room of my own, and a bed and blankets, and I didn’t have to scramble across a rough hillside to get to it.
I slept in the house, where at nights there was a warm, open fire. In all other respects it was a rough, primitive household. The lavatory was conveniently located on skids. One could dig a fresh hole and pull the “lav.” over the top of it as the need arose.
The cowshed was small and inconvenient. There was no means of keeping the firewood dry, and and the copper was surrounded by squelching mud, as was the firewood and chopping block. Lighting a copper fire in the pouring rain with wet, mud-spattered kindling can be near impossible, so the washing water was often scarcely warm at the end of milking, and the separator and milking machine would remain just a bit greasy after milking.
Maureen was in charge of breakfast. She did most of the work around the place. The younger children would be sent out looking for duck eggs in amongst the rushes on the flat and would arrive back with a bucket-full. These would be cooked on the stove and placed in the middle of the bare table with some butter and a loaf of bread. The loaf was passed round the table for each unwashed and dirty child to cut off his or her portion. That, and those eggs of doubtful vintage, was breakfast. Occasionally the kids found an old nest and eggs with a definite pong, which would have to be discarded.
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Jack would sit by the fire at night and hoick and spit in the general direction of the flames. Sometimes his aim wasn’t too good but no-one seemed concerned. He was, in many respects, a dirty old man, reputed to have become a grandfather at age thirty, which suggested his oldest daughter was an early starter too.
At times there was only one towel for the whole household. The children, aged from about three up, would wash and dry themselves, and the solitary towel would look and feel like a very wet and dirty floor cloth. It was better not to use that towel.
Maureen was a toiler. She and I milked. Jack didn’t seem to do very much at all, but then he was nursing a weak heart. He must have nursed it pretty well for he died aged ninety.
Maureen also managed a plough and a team of bullocks with some efficiency. One day she and I took the team and sledge down on to the Otakairangi Swamp for a load of firewood. With the sledge loaded with ti-tree about thirty feet long, Maureen gee’d up the team, which at this time were standing at an angle of about ninety degrees to the sledge. The load swung around and a branch caught in the seat of my pants, almost tearing the backside out of them. Clutching my pants, I asked Maureen, “Have you got a safety pin?”
Yes,” she said, “turn round for a minute and I’ll get you one.”
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Maureen also did the Rural Mail Delivery on horse-back and while I was there the mail contract came up for tender. The telephone was on a party line and every time the phone rang Jack would quieten everyone and listen in. They lost the contract to Dave Clark, who was shrewd enough to deliver his tender personally to the Kamo Post Master.
Jack was most annoyed about this. With his son and son-in-law he went to the Lovells and bailed up Dave in the stock-yards. There they commenced to abuse him and indeed work him over, completely overlooking Dave’s wife, the daughter of a Maori chief, who was also present. Mrs Clark picked up a ti-tree stick and laid into them. Very soon it was a complete route and I can readily understand why I only heard the story later while I was working, with Dave, for Jack Lovell.
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Jack’s daughter was a little younger than me, a pretty, black-haired girl. I, a reasonably handsome blonde, was her opposite. Jack did his best to pair us off and would sit the two of us together, opposite him, at the dining table. Fortunately she didn’t appeal or I, too, could have become a thirty-year-old grand-dad. Jack did his best to encourage it and so, to a lesser degree, did she. But I was a backward boy.
Life working for Jack was a little more leisurely. He wasn’t very ambitious and he was an easy boss. I played tennis at the Otakairangi Tennis Courts, met many people I hadn’t seen before and enjoyed some social life. I attended one particular social and was dancing with Jack’s daughter when her skirt fell to her ankles. She stooped to pick it up and, in great embarrassment, I conducted her to her seat. I wondered if she, too, was saved by a safety pin from Maureen’s underwear and whether Maureen might in turn have had problems.
Jack liked amorous adventures. One night three of Jack Lovell’s workers were loitering outside a dance in the Jordan School (a long-standing country custom) when they heard some movement from the back of a truck. They went to investigate, thinking there might be a beer for them. Instead they found Jack sexually involved with a Mrs K. and backed off. People do talk, and the talk soon got back to Jack, who promptly threatened to sue one of the three for slander. One of the others was present, however, and said, “Forget it, Jack. Stan and I saw you too.” Poor Jack. Poor Mrs K.
He and his wife’s bedroom was just through the thin partition from mine. Both their bed and mine were parked against that wall so I was almost in bed with them. Their bed took a mighty pounding and Jack’s heart stood up to it well.