Old Drumble (12 page)

Mr Jackman took his right hand off the handlebars and touched his hat to Mrs Dunlop, who was just coming out of her gate. Jack gripped tight again, but his father put his hand back down quickly, and Jack relaxed.

“Do you think Mum will let me help Andy drive the sheep along the Wardville road next time? Just as far as Griffiths’ corner.”

“That might be getting a bit far for me to pick you up and get you home in time for lunch. We’ll have to see what we can arrange.

“I don’t know that I’d go saying anything at home about Old Drumble’s pub crawl: your mother’s got a bit of a down on the booze and tobacco. She’ll take a small glass of sweet sherry at a wedding breakfast or a twenty-first, but only for the toasts.”

“I’ve seen her smoke,” said Jack.

“That’s different,” said his father. “For years she kept a
packet of De Reszke ivory-tipped. On the side it said ‘The aristocrat of cigarettes’, so that was okay. She’d smoke one at Christmas and another on New Year’s Day, ‘just to be sociable’.

“Then Mrs Dainty caught her puffing a fag somebody had given her at the kitchen evening for the Toogood girl and told her that tobacco is a temptation of the Devil, so your mother gave it up for Lent, and never started again. I reckon you might be best keeping it to yourself, you know, about Old Drumble’s Havelock Dark, and about the pubs, too.”

“What’s a temptation of the Devil, Dad?”

“Anything that Mrs Dainty disapproves of. But don’t go saying that to your mother.”

They bumped over the lines at the factory crossing, turned off the main road at the church corner, and Jack rang the bell as they went past the bottom end of Ward Street—just to show Harry Jitters and Minnie Mitchell. Then they were home, and he was so busy telling his mother about driving the mob all the way to the cemetery crossing, he didn’t have time to tell her how Old Drumble stopped the Piako River.

But, after Mr Jackman had gone back to work, and they were doing the lunch dishes, Jack said to her, “We saw a swagger down near Dickeys’ place, and Andy told him he might get a job up the Hinuera Valley. Dad saw him, too, and got him a lift on one of Stan Goosman’s lorries.”

“Mr Goosman to you, my boy. I suppose we’ve got to be thankful your father didn’t bring him home for lunch.”

“Why not?”

“You know perfectly well why not! And what else happened?”

Jack swallowed. “You’re not going to believe this…”

“Leave that for me to decide.” His mother’s voice was crisp. “What sort of nonsense has Andy been filling you up with now?”

“It’s not nonsense, Mum. True! Andy told me how Old Drumble barked so thunderously loud, he stopped the Piako River at the Pipiroa ferry, and they got the sheep across okay. Then Old Drumble stopped his thunderous bark, and the river ran again.”

His mother pressed her lips together. “Stopping the Piako River?” she said. “It sounds remarkably like the story of the time that Moses parted the Red Sea to let the children of Israel escape from the Egyptians. That Andy had better watch out what he’s saying.” She shook her head.

“If that man thinks he’s going to go repeating Bible stories and passing them off as his own yarns, Mrs Dainty will put the vicar on to him.”

“Andy stuffed his shirt full of flatties as they crossed the dry river-bed,” Jack said, “and they lit a fire down the road and cooked up a feed in the frying pan.”

His mother pulled out the plug, watched the dishwater circle and disappear with a gurgle, wiped around the sink, and sniffed. “Parting the Piako River, indeed. And filling his shirt with smelly fish. And then what?” She wrung the dishcloth so hard that Jack felt his throat.

Carefully, he dried the knives and forks one by one, because his mother always said you can’t dry them properly if you just pick up a handful. He put them in their drawer one by one, too, just in case. Jack didn’t want Mrs Dainty sooling the vicar on to Andy.

“And up the Tapu Valley,” he heard himself gabbling, “where they took the sheep, the farmer put down a copper Maori for them, and Old Drumble scoffed down so much hot pumpkin the cocky said he wouldn’t have believed it, if he hadn’t seen it with his own eyes.”

“I’d have to see it with mine, too, before I’d believe a word of it,” said Jack’s mother.

“He loves pumpkin done in a hangi, Old Drumble.” His voice raced away on its own again. “Andy reckons he can’t get enough of it. That was the trouble: he hoed into it with both paws, shoving it down his gob without waiting for it to cool; that’s how he burnt his throat.”

“Oh, yes?”

“True, Mum. Andy said so.” His voice jabbered higher and faster. “Old Drumble’s throat felt as if it was on fire, so he ran all the way into the Thames and did a pub crawl along Pohlen Street, drinking beer in every single
one, to cool it down. A hundred and twenty pubs; that’s a hundred and twenty beers—and they weren’t just handles, they were schooners. Andy reckons that’s a fair bit for a dog to put away.”

“Indeed!”

Encouraged, Jack looked up, saw his mother was staring at him, and plunged on. “And he smoked his head off, Havelock Dark plug tobacco rolled in raupo leaves. A smoke with every beer, and a beer in every pub.

“Andy says that’s the worst thing you can do to a dog’s bark, encourage him to take up smoking. Jeez! I wish I’d been there, with Old Drumble, doing his pub crawl…” Jack’s voice tailed off, as he felt his mother’s eye glitter cold.

“What—did—you—say—John—Jackman?” Her voice was slow, each word separate from the next. “Taking the Lord’s name in vain! Are my ears deceiving me? Did I hear you aright, that you’ve taken up drinking and smoking?”

“I was just telling you what Old Drumble did,” Jack squeaked.

“T
HE IDEA
! I let you and your father out of my sight for a few minutes and, in no time, the pair of you are rolling home blaspheming, swearing, and reeking of beer and tobacco!

“Next thing, he’ll be taking you over to the billiard saloon, and teaching you to gamble with the bookie. What’s the world coming to, I’d like to know?”

“It wasn’t Dad’s fault, Mum! It was Old Drumble who went on a pub crawl through the Thames.”

“That’s right: blame it on an innocent dog. I think you’d better get out and mow the back lawn. And don’t you dare go thinking for a moment that you’re a dog who frequents billiard saloons, and swears, and drinks beer, and smokes tobacco!”

“But, Mum—”

“No buts! If I hear so much as a single bark, you’ll be in trouble. Copper Maoris, pub crawls, chewing tobacco.
I suppose I should be grateful they haven’t taught you to spit!

“And parting the river to get the sheep across…What sort of pagan rubbish is that old Andy going to come up with next?” demanded Mrs Jackman. “The idea of it!”

“But—” Jack tried to say.

“I thought I said ‘No buts’? Standing there with your mouth wide open, gawping at me like a ninny. I suppose you’re waiting for me to cut the grass for you? Hang up that tea towel properly, and get out there and start mowing that lawn, at once. And, if you know what’s good for you, Jack Jackman, you won’t even dare think of going near any of those dirty hotels! Thank heavens we live in a dry district.”

The grass was long, the lawn mower a heavy pig of a thing to push. What made it even harder was that his mother came to the back door and called, “What’s the use of mowing the lawn if you don’t use the catcher?

“I don’t want grass clippings tracked in all over my lino. You put the catcher on at once, and you can rake the bit you’ve already cut. Get the wheelbarrow, and make sure you put the clippings on your father’s compost—and don’t you dare bark at me, Jack Jackman!”

“I wasn’t barking, Mum. True—”

“I wouldn’t even think of it,” his mother warned. “Not if you value your life…”

Jack raked up the grass, put it in the wheelbarrow, and tried to run it up a plank and tip it on top of the compost heap.

It always looked good fun, when Dad did it, but Jack’s legs and arms weren’t long enough, so he tried running up the plank behind the wheelbarrow himself. The iron wheel slipped, the plank tipped sideways, and Jack fell off the compost heap. First, the clippings came down on top of him, then the heavy wooden wheelbarrow, then the plank.

He got to his feet, spitting grass. “Pig!” he told the plank and propped it back in place. “Pig!” he told the wheelbarrow, and stood it up the right way. “Pig!” he told the clippings, as he raked them up and threw them on the compost heap. “Pig-swine!” he hissed at them all: the compost heap, the plank, the wheelbarrow, and the clippings.

He hooked the wire eyes of the catcher over the lugs on the lawn mower, took up the handle and shoved. The catcher soon filled with grass, the mower was twice as heavy to push, then it stopped because of a cabbage tree leaf that got itself wound around the axle.

“Pig-shit!” Jack told it, then felt all hot, and glanced at the kitchen window. Had the curtain moved? With her strong eye and ears, his mother could tell what he was thinking through the door; she’d have no trouble hearing him swear through the glass. And, just at that moment,
Harry Jitters came swaggering, whistling, waving his arms, and driving an imaginary mob of sheep up Ward Street.

Jack growled deep in his chest as Harry put his mob across the Turangaomoana Road—without even looking out for traffic. Clumsily, he drove them past the hall on to the grass, left them grazing under the eyes of his invisible dogs, and turned to walk back. Jack’s heart dropped as he realised that Harry was coming to stare and sneer, to chiack him like Andy’s yahoo at the Pipiroa ferry. For a moment, black despair filled his heart, then an idea came into his head.

Jack dropped the lawn mower handle, stood back, and looked at the strip he’d just mown. He put his head on one side, pursed his lips, knelt down, and brushed his hand over the cut grass. He stood up, emptied the catcher, pushed the mower the length of the lawn, and went through the same act. It felt a bit silly, kneeling, brushing the grass, putting his head on one side, but he cut another strip, knelt, and put his head on one side a third time. When he stood up, he backed over towards the fence, looked at the cut lawn, and whistled in admiration at his own work. “Whew!”

“We know what you’re up to, Jack Jackman,” said a loud voice behind him.

“Where’d you spring from?” Jack didn’t wait for a reply, but crouched and studied the lawn again.

“Haw! Haw! Haw!” Harry Jitters mocked. Jack ignored him.

“We know what ya game is, Jack Jackman.”

“Yeah?” Jack tried to sound nonchalant.

“Yeah! Tryin’ to make it look like fun, mowin’ your lawn. An’ we know where you pinched the idea from, too.”

“What idea?”

“That idea. The one outta that book Mr Strap read to us.”

“What book?”

“The one about Tom Sawyer whitewashin’ his aunt’s fence. That’s where ya pinched the idea from.”

“I did not!”

“Haw! Haw! Haw! You don’t fool me, Jack Jackman. It’s hard work, pushin’ that heavy old mower of yours, specially with the catcher. And you’re not going to get me doin’ any mowin’, not even if you give me a bag of marbles, and an old rat and a string to swing it with. So there!”

Jack ignored Harry, pushed the mower another length of the lawn, took off the catcher, and carried it across to dump the clippings on the compost heap. It was unfortunate that—just as Jack heaved up the catcher—Harry barked. Jack’s hands did something wrong, the catcher tipped too soon, and half the clippings went on the ground.

The kitchen window popped open. “You pick up those clippings and put them on the compost heap at once,” said the voice of doom. Harry Jitters heard it, and kept still and silent.

Jack picked up the clippings, and looked at how much still remained to be mown. He’d be there all day. “It’s not fair,” he said aloud. Harry Jitters heard it and couldn’t help himself. He stuck his head right through the fence, shoving hard to get his ears between the wires, and barked again but, this time, it was Harry’s rowdiest huntaway bark, loud and insistent—“Wow! Wow! Wow!”—his head jerked up and down. “Wow! Wow! Wow!”

“I’ll teach you to come barking around my house!” Mrs Jackman burst out the front door, charged down the steps, flung open the gate, and nearly caught Harry, whose head was stuck between the wires. He jerked it free and ran, yelling with fright and pain, the backs of his ears scratched—“Ow! Ow! Ow!”—back down to his own end of Ward Street. Jack’s mother stood, shaking her apron after him, laughing helplessly.

“Who said you could stop work?” she asked Jack, who’d run out and stood beside her, barking after Harry. “A drunkard in the family. Smoking tobacco, blaspheming, swearing—and gambling, too, I’ve no doubt. You get on with your lawn.”

But there was no anger in her voice, and she’d laughed at Harry. Jack just had to tell her the rest of the story.

“And, Mum,” he said, “coming back, they were driving a mob of steers up to the sales in Auckland, and the Piako was in flood at Pipiroa, and Old Drumble blindfolded the steers and made them walk a tightrope across the river, holding their tails in each other’s mouths. And he had to blindfold Andy and stick the end of his tail in his mouth to get him across, too. And he got the steers up to Auckland in time to get the top price.”

“I’m pleased to hear it,” said his mother. “Now, if you’re not cutting that grass by the time I’ve counted to ten, I’ll stick your tail in your mouth and give you the end of a rope around your legs, my boy. One, two, three…”

Whirr! Whirr! Whirr! Jack shoved the lawn mower hard at a patch of rye grass that just bent and wouldn’t cut properly. He guessed now wasn’t the best time to ask his mother if he could help drive the next mob out on the Wardville road.