Aunt Effie and Mrs Grizzle (8 page)

“Bagfuls of C.A.C. bullets: twenty-twos and three nought threes for the rifles, and cartridges of buckshot and birdshot for the shotgun. Nails, staples, number eight wire, barbed wire, wire-netting, corsets, corrugated iron, harness, riding saddles, trusses, camp ovens, billies, bundles of axe handles, hammers, pliers, secateurs, toothbrushes, mousetraps, dictionaries, doorknobs, buckets, coils of rope, yard brooms, face-cloths, Electric sandsoap, Solvol, turps, linseed oil, Stockholm tar, pack-saddles, bridles, cruppers, britching, dog collars, swingle trees, chains, scythes, sickles, shovels, spades, and files, and umpteen barrels of Jim O’Gorman’s Irish Whiskey – for drenching the cows.

“What wouldn’t go into kerosene cases and sacks, we made into bundles. We belted pack-straps around them, hung them off the hooks on the pack-saddles, and set off down the Turangaomoana Road, past the sawdust heap.

“The pack-horses knew that monster pukekos like the taste of horseflesh, so they wanted to get across the Great Waharoa Swamp before dark. Despite their loads, they trotted all the way back to the
Betty Boop
. And all the way I kept my eyes skinned for the School Inspector.”

Jessie felt her eyes and went to ask something, but Ann put her hand over her mouth again.

“The pack-horses
jumped on to the deck of the
Betty Boop
,” said Aunt Effie. “The clatter of hoofs woke my mother.

“‘Where’s the Prime Minister’s letter?’ she asked in a weak little voice.

“‘What Prime Minister’s letter? You’ve been dreaming again,’ I told her.

“‘It said something about the School Inspector.’ My mother thought for a moment and said, ‘School Inspectors have such romantic whiskers!’

“‘What a fib!’ I told her. ‘You’ve never seen a School Inspector in your life.’ My mother had a little cry and went back to sleep.

“All the way back across the swamp we had the usual trouble with monster pukekos side-slipping between the
Betty Boop
’s sails, dive-bombing us with their stinky poos, and trying to fly away with the pack-horses in their talons. I loaded my blunderbuss with bent nails and broken beer bottles and let them have it, while my mother dreamed about the School Inspector’s whiskers, and we sailed safely home.

“I thought it was best to keep away from Hopuruahine, so shod the horses myself. I already knew how to do cold shoeing and, under my pillow, I found a letter from my father telling me how to make horse-shoes and put them on red-hot.

We sneaked into Hopuruahine only once a year. I went to the post office, collected the mail, and burned any Government letters on Mr Whimble’s forge before my mother could read them. Nothing happened, and I hoped they’d forgotten me.

“Then one day, a tall man swam his horse across the swamp, jumped the cattle-stop, and galloped around our house. He wore a black hat, had long teeth, and romantic whiskers still dripping from the swamp. Rows and rows of red, white, green, and blue ballpoint pens stuck out of his waistcoat pockets. A lasso hung from one side of his saddle, and a butterfly net from the other. Handcuffs jangled from the D-rings, and he swung a thirty-foot bullock driver’s whip. ‘Crack! Crack!’

“‘The School Inspector!’ my mother cried. ‘Hide, Euphemia!’”

“I love romantic whiskers!” said Lizzie.

“Shhh!” we all whispered and smiled. “Go on, Aunt Effie.”

“‘H
IDE YOURSELF
, E
UPHEMIA
!’ my mother screamed as the School Inspector twirled his romantic whiskers with one hand, cracked his whip with another, and swung a lasso with the other.

“‘I told you, my name’s Brunnhilde!’ I yelled at my mother and ran for the swamp, but the School Inspector lassoed me as I jumped the fence. He scooped me up in a butterfly net, clicked handcuffs around my wrists, and cracked my bare feet with his bullock whip.

“‘I’m going to put shoes on her and make her go to school!’ he shouted. He twirled his wicked black moustaches, and my mother sighed romantically.’”

“Ahhh!” Lizzie sighed romantically, too.

“Go on!” we all told Aunt Effie.

“‘I
F SHE
’
S BEHIND
the other kids,’ shouted the School Inspector, ‘we’ll give her the strap! That’ll make her catch up!’”

“That’s not fair!” we all said. “Not the strap!” but Aunt Effie frowned and her six enormous pig dogs ground their teeth, so we held our breath and sat quiet on the foot of her enormous bed. Aunt Effie nodded.

“M
Y MOTHER
told the School Inspector, ‘She knows her alphabet and how to add! I learned her myself.’

“‘Add alphabet!’ the School Inspector shouted at me. I stared at his romantic whiskers.

“‘Spell arithmetic!’ he shouted. I stared at the rows of different-coloured pens in his waistcoat pockets.

“‘Some teacher! She can’t spell or add!’ he shouted. ‘What’s she going to do when she grows up and wants a job?’ My mother fell asleep.

“‘When I grow up,’ I told him, ‘I’m going to be a School Inspector with lots of different-coloured pens in my waistcoat pockets. I’m going to lasso and handcuff little children, shout and whip their bare feet, and I’m going to grow black moustaches.’

“‘Don’t be cheeky!’ said the School Inspector.

“‘I’m not Cheeky,’ I told him. ‘I’m Brunnhilde!’

“When it heard my heroic name, his horse farted, bucked him off, dived back into the swamp, and swam underwater towards the other side. The School Inspector swam after it, cracking his bullock whip to keep off the crocodiles. And up the drive loped a swagger wearing an old army lemon-squeezer hat, carrying a tea-tree stick, a billy, and a sugarbag pikau, and walking a bit like a pukeko, knees and elbows bending both ways.

“The swagger pushed back my mother’s eyelids, and asked in a strong clear voice, ‘How long has she had sleeping sickness?’

“‘Is that the trouble?’

“The swagger nodded. ‘She’s caught it off the monster pooks, playing with them in the swamp.’

“‘How do you know?’

“The swagger turned to look at me and said, ‘I know everything!’ I shivered because the swagger’s head had turned right around, like a morepork’s. I carried my mother inside and laid her on the kitchen table.

“‘What’s that noise?’ asked the swagger.

“‘The cows bellowing because their bags are full. They want to be milked.’

“‘Come on,” said the swagger. ‘I can’t cure your mother while that din’s going on.’ I shoved my feet into my gumboots and followed the swagger down to the shed.

“The cows stood on their hind legs and curtsied to the swagger. They mooed affectionately and lined up to be milked; they didn’t need leg-roping; they didn’t kick over the bucket; they didn’t piddle, nor even drop their smelly plops in the yard.

“The swagger’s fingers were double-jointed and milked so fast that the herd was stripped in minutes. We sledged the cream to the gate, and Bonny galloped home so fast, the konaki slid sideways and knocked out a gatepost. The swagger murmured something, and the gatepost jumped back into place.

“‘That’s handy!’

“‘It doesn’t always work,’ said the swagger, whose old army lemon-squeezer blew off so that long red hair fell as far as the waist. The swagger was a woman!

“Back at the house, she lifted my mother’s eyelid with one double-jointed finger and asked me, ‘What’s your name?’

“‘Brunnhilde.’

“The swagger’s head turned right around on her double-jointed neck. ‘With a name like Brunnhilde, you are going to be a hero! My name is Mrs Grizzle.’”

“Mrs Grizzle!” we all gasped.

Aunt Effie nodded.