Uncle Trev and the Whistling Bull (6 page)

Chapter Eleven

Why Mum Said She'd Give Uncle Trev Napoleon's Ghost

“Old Freddy Shunter was sweeping out the Waharoa hall after the dance the other night and he saw a ghost.” Uncle Trev sucked a mouthful of tea from his saucer.

“Mum says there's no such thing as ghosts.”

“Try telling that to Old Freddy. He ran down the road till he bumped into Ken Quaver coming home from the late shift over at the factory and got him to go back down the hall with him, and Ken says he saw the ghost, too.”

“Mum says Ken Quaver would be scared if he saw himself in a mirror.”

“The hall committee's got to look for somebody else as a cleaner. Old Freddy won't go near the place again.”

I didn't know what to say to that, so I said, “Mum'll give it to you if she catches you drinking out of your saucer. She says New Zealand's not old enough to have ghosts.”

“Have you got any idea how old the Waharoa hall is?”

“We always read the foundation stone when we're waiting to go in to Sunday school. It says the hall was built as a memorial after the Great War, and it was opened by the prime minister, Mr Massey.”

“That's just the present hall,” Uncle Trev said. “There was a hall long before that, a memorial for the Boer War, but it burnt down one Guy Fawkes. And there was a hall there even before that, built in memory of the Maori Wars.”

“That must have been ages ago.”

“Oh, there was another hall well before that, but it burnt down like all the others.”

“What was that one for?”

“It was built in memory of the Napoleonic Wars against Old Boney.”

“Who's Old Boney?”

Uncle Trev took off his hat, put it on the floor under his chair, and stood and sang:

 

Boney was a warrior, Way-ay-yah!

A warrior and a terrier, Jean François!

 

Boney fought the Rooshians, Way-ay-yah!

The Rooshians and the Prooshians, Jean François!

 

Moscow was a blazin'
, Way-ay-yah!

Boney was a-ragin', Jean François!'

 

Boney went to Elba, Way-ay-yah!

Boney he came back again, Jean François!

 

Boney went to Waterloo, Way-ay-yah!

There he got his overthrow, Jean François!

 

He went to St Helena, Way-ay-yah!

Aboard the Billy Ruffian, Jean François!

 

Boney broke his heart and died, Way-ay-yah!

Away in Saint Helena, Jean François!

 

At each “yah” and at each “Jean François”, Uncle Trev tugged hard on an invisible rope. “That's what you call a sea shanty,” he said, sitting down again. “When I was a young joker, we sang it to help us pull up the mainsail on the scow.”

“What was the scow's name?”

“The
Empress Josephine
– after Boney's wife. She gave him a hard time, so they say.”

“But who was Boney?”

“Napoleon Bonaparte, the Emperor of France. He marched his army to Moscow in 1812, but the Russian winter beat him. They put him on an island called Elba, but he got away and fought the Battle of Waterloo. The Duke of Wellington beat him, and they put him on St Helena, another island, where he died.”

“What was the
Billy Ruffian?
”

“The H.M.S.
Bellerophon
that carried him to St Helena.”

I looked at Uncle Trev.

“Bellerophon,” he said. “Billy Ruffian.”

“Why did they build a memorial hall to him in Waharoa?”

“It was in memory of the hiding they gave him at Waterloo. And the hall before that was built by Captain Cook when he found Waharoa.”

“Did Captain Cook find Waharoa?”

“He reckoned he named it after the village where he grew up back in England, but there was a Waharoa here long before him. Of course, years before Captain Cook came along, the Maoris built the first hall here and used to show pictures on a Saturday night.”

“I didn't know they had pictures away back then.”

“They were the old silent flicks.”

I nodded. “But who's the ghost in the hall?”

“Down at Mrs Doleman's billiard saloon, they were saying it's old Boney walking around in the hall at night, singing that sea shanty, and carrying his head under his arm.”

“Why does he carry his head under his arm?”

“Ghosts do that, you know. Specially if they've had their blocks knocked off.”

“Did Napoleon have his block knocked off?”

“Captain Cook knocked it off with his battle-axe at the Battle of Waharoa back in 1840, when Napoleon refused to sign the Treaty of Waitangi.”

“Why wouldn't he sign?”

“He couldn't write his name in English because he was French, you see. So they fought the Battle of Waharoa, and Captain Cook knocked Napoleon's block off, made him sign the Treaty of Waitangi, and built the old Waharoa hall as a war memorial.”

“What happened to the Empress Josephine?”

“Well, she was sorry old Boney had his block knocked off, specially since she'd given him such a hard time, so she sent a signed photograph of herself. It used to hang up on the stage in the hall. I haven't seen it for years, not since they put up the new screen for the pictures.”

“Did you have pictures when you were a boy?”

“I don't remember them, but your mother might. She could well remember Napoleon. Being much older than me means she's got a lot more to remember, you know.”

I woke, and Uncle Trev had gone. I could hear Mum bustling around in the kitchen.

“Uncle Trev popped in,” I called out.

“What's that?”

“Uncle Trev came in.”

“As if I hadn't smelt him and his dirty old dog the moment I put my foot inside the back door.”

“Mum, Uncle Trev told me about the ghost that Mr Shunter and Ken Quaver saw down the hall. It's Napoleon's ghost, he said, carrying his head under his arm and crying because Captain Cook beat him at the Battle of Waharoa and made him sign the Treaty of Waitangi or he'd get his block knocked off.”

“There ought to be a law against that man coming in and filling you up with his stories. Napoleon never came within cooee of Waharoa. And he was dead long before the Treaty of Waitangi.”

“Uncle Trev said you'd remember better than him.”

“What on earth they're going to do with you when you go back to school, I don't know. Filling you up with all that wicked rubbish about Napoleon and Captain Cook and the Treaty of Waitangi.

“Now, hold your nose and drink this because the doctor said it'll make you better, and you can have a piece of cake to take away the taste. Don't go wrinkling up your nose. Just hold your breath, and down it goes. Oh, come on, it's not as bad as that.”

“I wish I could put my head under my arm like old Boney, and then I wouldn't be able to taste the medicine.”

“If wishes were horses, beggars could ride. That's it. Here's your cake. I've a good mind to make that uncle of yours drink a glass of your medicine. Perhaps that'll stop him telling those stories.”

“Mum,” I said, “do you remember Napoleon?”

“How would I remember Napoleon?”

“Uncle Trev said you would. Well, he said you've got a lot more to remember because you're so much older than him.”

“Napoleon died long before my mother was born.” Mum looked at me and spoke very slowly. “And I'm only a year older than your uncle, and don't you forget it…I'll give that man Napoleon's ghost next time he comes in.”

Chapter Twelve

The Day the Barbarians Sacked Waharoa

Before Mum let Uncle Trev into the house, she went out and searched his lorry to make sure he didn't have Gotta Henry hidden.

“Just that smelly old dog sitting up in the cab and imagining he's a Christian,” she said, coming back in. “You see your uncle doesn't go bringing it inside.”

“Aw.”

“All right. Your uncle can bring it around so you can say hello through the window, but no opening it, now. We don't want a chill. The air outside's quite brisk.

“I'm off to the flower show at Hinuera. I never feel easy, leaving the house with your uncle here. When I think of that time I came home and saw smoke rising from the backyard…Making gunpowder, indeed. Upsetting the neighbours, and putting the chooks off laying. There's Mrs Burns tooting. I must run.”

“Imagine the cackle in that car,” said Uncle Trev. “Your mother, Mrs Burns, and Mrs Dripnose all squawking together.”

“Mrs Diprose.”

“That's what I said. None of them listening to the others. Shrieking, waving, and nodding their silly hats like a carful of turkeys shaking their wattles and going ‘Gobble, gobble, gobble.' ”

I grinned, so Uncle Trev gobbled again and said, “Your mother made me swear I wouldn't bring Old Tip through the door.”

“She said I could say hello through the window.”

“Well, say it.”

I looked through the window and there was Old Tip. “Hello,” I said and waved, and Old Tip bounced and barked.

“That's all right then. You've done what she told you to do.” Uncle Trev opened the window, and Old Tip leapt through, snuffled and licked my nose, and would have climbed on my bed, but Uncle Trev told him to sit. I hung my hand down where it could scratch behind his ears. Old Tip liked that.

Uncle Trev went out to the kitchen, and I heard him going through Mum's cake and biscuit tins. “We'll stuff ourselves on your mother's Louise cake for our lunch,” he called. “And her gingernuts, too.”

“Mum said there's something for lunch in the safe.”

“We'll give that to Old Tip. He won't know the difference.”

Old Tip looked at me.

“Don't go listening to him,” Uncle Trev yelled. “He's always trying to make people feel sorry for him.” He came back munching a gingernut, and gave me one.

“I don't suppose you heard that the barbarians sacked Auckland last week?”

“What are barbarians?”

“Uncivilised savages. Years ago, they sacked Rome and started the Dark Ages. Now they're attacking New Zealand.”

“Why didn't Mum tell me?”

“Women are like that: they like to spoil any fun that's going. Yes, the barbarians sacked Hamilton last week, then Morrinsville. Yesterday, they had a go at Walton.”

“What did they do?”

“Held up the post office and stole all the stamps. Pinched all the lollies and sweet biscuits from Hilliers' store. Rampaged up and down the main street, yahooing and terrifying everyone, and disappeared back into the countryside.”

“Where do they come from?”

“Gotta Henry thinks they're Australians. My theory is that they're working their way south. You think of it: Auckland, Hamilton, Morrinsville, and yesterday in Walton. Today it'll be Waharoa's turn.”

“I'd like to be attacked!” I said. “Better than just lying in bed with nothing to do.”

“It'd certainly liven up the place. Old Gotta and I thought of joining the barbarians, if they'd have us. There's been nothing much happen in Waharoa since your mother got the Governor-General drunk with her tipsy cake.”

“Mum says that's a wicked lie.”

“She would.” Uncle Trev nodded, went out to the kitchen, and brought back the tin of gingernuts. “Make the most of them while you can. If those Aussie barbarians scent gingernuts, they'll scoff the lot of them.”

“Do you think they'll attack Waharoa today?”

“It's the next town on their way south, isn't it?”

Mum had left some cold meat and salad in the safe, and we had some for lunch. Old Tip wasn't very interested in the salad, except for the thick mayonnaise that Mum made with condensed milk. He licked it up, and gobbled the meat I gave him.

Uncle Trev gave me a hand to put on my dressing gown and slippers, and piggy-backed me down the path to the dunny. By the time I got back to bed, I felt a bit tired and closed my eyes.

When I woke, Uncle Trev was reading the Herald.

“Have the barbarians been?” I asked.

“Haven't heard them.” Uncle Trev shook the Herald and said, “The Auckland paper doesn't say anything, because they're scared the barbarians will go back and give them another hiding. I believe they made a mess of the school at Walton, wrote rude remarks on the blackboard, just the sort of thing you'd expect from them uncivilised Australians.”

“Did they hurt the kids?”

“Not that I heard of. Barbarians are usually kind to children. Well, they're just overgrown kids themselves. The paper says the police are investigating, whatever that means. It doesn't look too good for Waharoa today.”

“What if Mum runs into them?”

“No barbarian in his right mind would attack that carful of women. He'd get his comeuppance if he did.”

I was drifting off to sleep again when Uncle Trev said, “What's that?”

“What?”

“Listen!”

A cow mooed in the distance, up the back of Hawes' farm. I shook my head.

“I'll just have a look. Don't you move. If you hear them coming, pull the blanket over your head. Old Tip won't let anything happen to you.”

Uncle Trev ran down the path past the kitchen window, and the front gate clicked. Old Tip's ears lifted, and he whined.

“I'll look after you,” I told him, and that was when I heard the barbarians coming. At first it was drums beating in the distance. They got louder and louder, like a brass band coming up the street. There were shouts, booms, and a rolling, rumbling noise with screams and bangs. The barbarians must have been very angry, so I remembered what Uncle Trev said, and pulled the blanket over my head.

“If you're scared, there's room under the blanket,” I told Old Tip, but he didn't seem that worried. I peeped and saw his ears prick up, that was all. He even had a bit of a grin on his face.

Then they were past our place, disappearing down Ward Street, and one or two shouts floated back. A boom followed by silence, and the cow mooed again.

“The barbarians have gone down to sack the post office,” I told Old Tip. “They'll be pinching the stamps.”

When Uncle Trev came back, he took off his coat and shook it out the window, and I saw red dust drift and sparkle in the sunlight.

“That was a close thing,” he said. “I got under my lorry, so they didn't see me. They were shouting something about attacking the post office.”

“Will they come back here?”

“They've gone.” Uncle Trev shook his head. “They were Australians, like I said.”

“How could you tell?”

“Once you've heard that Aussie voice, you'd never mistake it for anything else. They'll head south, sacking Matamata and Tirau on their way to Wellington. Then they'll make the ferry take them across Cook Strait without paying, and loot the South Island.”

“I hope Mum doesn't meet them.”

“They're probably hoping they don't meet her. They're cowards, barbarians. All noise.

“Out you go,” Uncle Trev said to Old Tip, who jumped out the window. “Now you can swear to your mother he didn't come in the door. Hooray.”

Mum came in sniffing, looked at her cake and biscuit tins, washed our dishes, and said she'd had a lovely day at the flower show. She'd brought home a treat for me, a slice of the bacon-and-egg pie they'd had for lunch.

She slipped over to Mrs Kemp's next door with an azalea cutting she'd picked up for her, and came back rampaging. I could tell by her footsteps.

“Mrs Kemp told me all about what's been going on. Your uncle and that disreputable friend of his, that Mr Henry, and Mrs Burns' husband who should know a sight better, rolling a corrugated iron water tank along Ward Street, the three them inside it, banging it with lumps of wood, shouting and groaning, making a terrible noise.”

“It was a tribe of barbarians from Australia, Mum. You could tell by their voices. They sacked Walton yesterday and Morrinsville the day before. And Hamilton and Auckland.”

“Barbarians? I might have known something would happen the moment my back was turned. I suppose that man brought his dog in through the back door as soon as I was gone?”

“No, he didn't, Mum. True.”

“I'm sure I can smell that old dog. Did you speak to him through the window, as I told you?”

“Through the window,” I told Mum. Under the blankets, I crossed my fingers and kept very still. That wasn't telling a fib. Not a bad one anyway.