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Some of the following is in the first person, written by Cliff, some in the third person, written by me based on his notes. ~ Ian

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Walter and his wife were a lovely couple and a pleasure to work for. Their farm was south of Whangarei in a wooded valley that always impressed Cliff with its beauty.

Walter was an old bushman with gnarled, calloused hands, the tendons shrunk and taut pulling his fingers and thumbs in towards the palms of his hands.

One of Cliff’s first jobs was unpleasant, to kill and skin a bull calf. Another was plucking a dozen ducks that Walter’s son-in-law had shot.

The kitchen was under a lean-to roof with a wood burning range and the kitchen table opposite, where they ate. Hanging from the rafters above the table was an uncovered side of bacon.

“I had eyed it with interest on first entering the kitchen, remembering my father’s fastidiousness. As Walter took down the side of bacon, maggots, large, white and obscene, dropped from it onto the kitchen table. The inner and fleshy side of the bacon, and particularly the crevices in the meat, were thickly covered with the white slime in which maggots prosper. I watched with astonishment as Walter scraped off the slime with his butcher’s knife. Surely, I thought, we don’t have to eat that.

“He then cut off a few slices and cooked it.

“Oh well, Walter seems to be enjoying it, I thought, as I very slowly buttered some bread, delaying things as much as possible. Then I took a hesitant mouthful. It was delicious, the most flavoursome bacon I have ever tasted. Today’s bacon curers could take a lesson from Walter, but whether the Health Department would approve is another matter.”

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One day Walter, Cliff wrote, killed a home-reared baconer, which he cured. After dinner they took the entrails down to the creek to catch eels. Once hooked up onto the bank they had to be hit hard quickly with a stick before they slithered back into the water.

Walter and his wife were largely self-sufficient, with a large vegetable garden. He also grew his own pipe tobacco. The huge leaves were hung and dried in a small shed until all the sap was gone. The leaves were then painted with a mixture that included molasses and saltpetre amongst other things. After soaking in this for several days the leaves were neatly arranged in a wooden box and placed under a book press to be compressed for several days more. The result was a large golden block of solid tobacco, which he cut into shreds with a sharp butcher’s knife and packed into preserving jars.

Cliff took some home to his Dad, who wouldn’t have abided the bacon but thought Walter’s home cured tobacco wasn’t too bad at all.

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Working for Walter was a pleasure. The work wasn’t too demanding, Walter was generous with the time off, and there were pleasant evenings in front of the fire playing cribbage, and plenty of books to read in his cosy bedroom. One book that made an impression was a biography of Napoleon. He decided that if the little corporal could make do with six hours sleep so could he. Years later, while studying for the Post Office he put that discipline to good use. He’d left school at twelve but in two years passed the Matriculation exam, the equivalent of University Entrance, by Correspondence.

“There were going to be miracles performed and boy did we need them.
A Labour victory seemed assured, but could a First World War conscientious objector win a victory against a war hero like Gordon Coates? Still, we had John A Lee, a war hero of our own.

“I don’t recall how I managed to be outside the Northern Advocate on election night. Some friends of ours had a small cottage across the road from the Advocate office. Mum, Dad, Evelyn and friends, and hundreds of others, were there.”

“We watched the election results as they were chalked up on the large board high on the office wall. The joyful tears as the results from each electorate were announced are beyond my powers of description. It was a scene one can never forget.

“This was a Labour victory that heralded some of the greatest changes in New Zealand history:

“A guarantee price for butterfat.

“Wages for youth at a guaranteed level according to age. In my case that was £1.00 — 20 shillings, or $2.00 — per week, as against seven shillings a week when I started work and my last wage of 15/-.

“The 40 hour week. Overtime. State housing. Much more. It took a little time to develop but it was on the way.”

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Why he left Walter and his wife Cliff couldn’t recall. “I do know that I would’ve regretted having to do so. Sad to say I have not seen or heard of that fine couple since.”

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Working for Arthur was “the best and most enjoyable” farm job Cliff ever had, and the two became lifelong friends.

Until Arthur died at the age of 90, Cliff used to visit him and one of his daughters regularly, taking oranges from his garden and staying to chew the fat and enjoy the occasional game of cribbage.

Arthur had a contract of some sort to milk cows for Jack Lovell, who was a wealthy man, “having inherited £50,000 as a young man”. If Cliff was right about that it would certainly make Jack a modern-day millionaire several times over. Apparently Jack would drive to Wellington every year to buy a new Ford pick-up, which “surely” indicated wealth. It used to amuse Cliff when Jack talked about how tough things were in the depression.

At that time Jack was single and employed several people, including a few Maori. He was a good boss. Besides Cliff and another man who did the milking with Arthur, there were a full-time carpenter, a drain digger, a stockman and another man with a team of horses who did ploughing and other jobs. Maybe a cook and housekeeper as well.

Like Arthur, Cliff was involved with Jack for years, especially while Jack was Chairman of the Whangarei County Council and Cliff the Councillor for the Hikurangi Riding.

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Cliff was impressed with the cowshed, which boasted all the mod cons, including a large concrete outer yard, the first in his experience. Even the piggery was almost mud-free. It was early in the season when he arrived, and there were still cows to calve.

After dinner I was shown where I was to sleep. Attached to the garage was a small bunkhouse with two bunks, one about the other. I chose the top bunk and arrange things for maximum comfort. Blankets etc were provided. Not like at Clive’s!

At dinner I found myself in pleasant company, and knew immediately that I was going to enjoy this job. A very enjoyable dinner, a chat and then away to bed for a good sleep. On my own at this stage as my workmate didn’t arrive for several weeks.

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Cliff had his fair share of adventures with horses, and there were a few at Arthur’s. After milking and breakfast following the first good night’s sleep Arthur asked him to catch a horse in the paddock down below the house:

“I didn’t think about a bridle until I was well away from the house. Never mind, I thought, I can manage without it — I’ll yell out for one after I’ve caught the horse and ridden up to the house.

“It was a half-bred draft horse with a long mane and tail. He was down at the bottom of a steep hill 200 yards or so away from the house, and it was there that I caught him. No bridle but I should be able to handle him. Grasping his mane I leapt onto his back. The reaction was instantaneous. He bucked furiously and galloped backwards and forwards across the paddock while I hung onto that mane like grim death. Falling off would have resulted in injury, so I had little option but to hang on and stay seated. This went on for some time until he began to tire and I too was almost exhausted. Then, by slapping him on the side of the neck, I manage to steer him up the hill to the house, where I found the whole family had been watching the proceedings with great interest.

“Arthur was waiting for me there with the bridle. To my great astonishment he told me that the horse had never been ridden in its life. It had been very poorly broken in to pull a sledge or similar load, and was useless for anything else.

“Before tractors became available, horses played a very important part in our lives, and this particular animal was a menace. He couldn’t be trusted to stand still, and while the sledge was loaded either had to be securely tied with a strong rope to an immovable object or held by someone. He was a damn nuisance in other words.

“One day it was me holding the horse while Arthur and Bob loaded the sledge with hay to feed out to cattle in a paddock across the road. Arthur took over the reins from me and we fed out the hay without any problem. By the time we had done with that we were at the far end of a rough paddock that had a fair scattering of ti-tree stumps on it. With all of us on board we set off for the gateway and the road at an easy trot. What scared the horse we don’t know but it suddenly bolted, completely out of control. It was a very exciting ride until inevitably the sledge collided with one of those stumps. We, the sledge and the horse went flying in all directions. It took some time for us to catch the horse and sort ourselves out.”

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On another occasion Bob was holding the horse. Or so Cliff thought. After they’d finished feeding out the hay Cliff jumped off the sledge to close the paddock gate behind them. The horse took off up the road verge — full gallop — against the boundary fence, with the sledge runner stripping battens off the fence, slewing around as it collided off the posts, and straightening up again to wreck the next section of fence as it ploughed its way up the road. The sledge was a total wreck, the fence a mess and they caught up with the horse on the far side of the hill. Jack bought a draft horse.

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Arthur had another use for horses. In those days “Bobby” (male) calves had no value except for their skins. Arthur would wait until a few had accumulated, then kill them and use the horse to pull the skins from the carcasses. The skins would then be salted down.

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It was easier for Cliff to remember the very pleasant evenings. They would play cards most nights after washing the dinner dishes, and and there was always supper before bed.

Cliff was delighted that they had a battery operated wireless, as radios were called in those days. Electricity was then still years away.

Every Monday night they listened to the wrestling from the Auckland Town Hall. If you didn’t have a wireless you endeavoured to visit someone who did. Gordon Hutter was the commentator, with a wonderful way of describing the various holds and the reactions of the competitors. Cliff’s favourite was Earl McCready. Another was Lofty Blomfield. Cliff remembered Lofty’s favourite hold as the Octopus Clamp. That hold won Lofty many bouts but Cliff reckoned it was so complicated that it could only be executed with the full cooperation of both contestants.

He was very excited when Arthur took them to see the wrestling in Whangarei but came away underwhelmed, thinking that it would have been more fun listening to Gordon Hutter’s commentary on the wireless.

Cliff followed Earl McCready’s career with great interest and had his picture on his bedroom wall. He and his cousin Jack wrestled every time they met for many years, until Jack developed Alzheimer’s Disease.

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When Cliff’s workmate Bob arrived, so did his dog — a nice dog, with fleas. Thousands of them in their little bunkhouse. One day he discovered the dog on Bob’s bed and impressed on it that it wasn’t welcome. There was no such thing as flea powder so all they could do was try and catch them — or hang their blankets out in the sun in the hope they’d depart — or, what worked best, learn to live with the bites, which left little red marks all over their bodies.

Speaking of pests, there were also rabbits, thousands of them on the neighbouring farms. Jack provided Arthur with .22 ammo to shoot them. One employee claimed to have shot six without moving from the same fence post. Arthur would sometimes skin a couple for the pot, but Cliff was a pretty useless shot as he’d stopped wearing glasses when he left school.

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One of the heifers gave birth to a dead calf, and it was Cliff’s job to bury it. Its mother followed and watched everything he did, then adopted him. She’d smelled her calf on him and become very confused. For weeks she’d follow her new calf everywhere if the chance arose, and whenever a dog came near would career around bellowing loudly and chasing it. It became quite a problem getting the cows in for milking and taking them back to the paddock.

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The heavy draft horse and brand-new dray Jack had bought were a great improvement. The new horse was easy to control, and would stand without fail when they halted him, with no need for control.

One day Cliff and Bob’s turn came to back the big horse up between the shafts and harness him. They were pretty pleased with themselves when they’d got the job done.

The dray was parked in a shed not far from the house — and there was a sudden loud cackle from a hen that had just laid an egg in a nesting box attached to the wall.

The noise terrified the horse and he took off at full gallop down the hill with the dray bouncing up and down behind him. They watched in amazement. Would he stop before he got to the road fence? No chance. He was going too fast and the gate was closed. He jumped the fence, the dray crashing behind him, and just as remarkably, dropped down a five foot bank and along the road at full speed. He didn’t stop for several hundred yards, when they could finally inspect the damage. Amazingly there was very little. The dray had lost some paint and the fence was on a lean, with stretched wires and pulled staples, but not too bad.

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Herd testers travelled around dairy farms to assess individual cows for the quantity and quality of their milk, to improve the breed. They stayed with the farmers while on their rounds, which given Cliff’s own experiences must have been interesting.

The testers were provided with a horse and cart, and this particular man seemed to have difficulty controlling his horse — in fact to be frightened of it. It was difficult to stop even from the security of a cart. Cliff couldn’t understand his concern and said so. Surely he could brace his legs against the front of the cart, pull on the reins very hard, and stop any horse?

Like hell, the Herd Tester reckoned. You have a go.

Cliff said he’d show him how. After the Heatons’ Creamy, Clive’s Weed and all the others he was pretty confident. After all this was just a light carthorse.

On the road just up from the cowshed he mounted the horse, bare back as usual, and they were off — full gallop from the first stride. He soon found that no matter how he heaved on the reins he couldn’t slow the horse down, and they raced on like bats out of hell. But experience was a great teacher, and by heaving even harder on one rein he could pull its head around and try to force it into the fence. The horse had soon had enough of that and eventually stopped. Turning around it wasn’t long before they were back where they’d started. Although the herd tester wouldn’t admit it, Cliff thought he was quite impressed.

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Cliff couldn’t remember why he left Arthur and his wife, either — pressure from his parents to move home, maybe — but he stayed in touch and visited them. On one occasion they went fishing, successfully enough that they stayed out for hours, and invited him to stay for dinner and a bed for the night.

Cliff was delighted by the idea of old times — a good meal, good company and a game of cards before bed.

But John and Annie didn’t have — never did have — a phone, so he was unable to tell his Mum that he wouldn’t be home, and she imagined him lying crippled on the side of the road after some dreadful accident.

Their next door neighbours did have a phone, but it was after 10.00pm by the time she decided she had to act. She roused the Post Master out of bed, who rang Arthur and his wife, who were able to tell her, by now after midnight, that their son was safe, well and sound asleep in bed.

He promised never to do it again.

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