Uncle Trev and the Whistling Bull (8 page)

Chapter Fifteen

Old Furry and the Rack

“Tell us what you put into Old Furry?” I whined. “Go on.”

Uncle Trev sighed. “I told you why the recipe's secret.”

“You can tell me.”

Uncle Trev shut his mouth tight.

“That's not fair.” I turned my face to the wall.

Something creaked in Uncle Trev's throat, and I heard him shift his feet. “Promise you'll keep it a secret?” he said.

I rolled back and looked at him. “I promise.”

“You won't go telling it to your mother?”

I shook my head.

“Not even if she tortures you? God's honour?”

“God's honour,” I whispered.

“I start off Old Furry with split peas and bacon bones,” said Uncle Trev, “but there's a lot more to him than that.”

“What?”

“All the leftovers in my cupboards: any old bits of stale bread, broken biscuits, and the end of the sirloin roast I got sick of eating cold. Whatever I can find in the garden: celery, leeks, onions, spuds, kumaras, carrots, Brussels sprouts, pumpkin, parsley, puha. A handful of watercress out of the creek, and the eel I caught, cleaning the ditch.”

“Eel?”

“Old Furry wouldn't be Old Furry without an eel or two. Frogs, tadpoles, tuataras, cicadas, grasshoppers, salt and pepper, mushrooms, neck of mutton chops and the scrag end, a spot or two of Lea and Perrin's sauce to liven him up. I throw in a few lentils, barley, rolled oats, some tomato sauce, a lemon, a dash of vinegar, and a few huhus to thicken him up: I like to see their eyes looking up out of the pot. Pheasant, duck, and pukeko, in they go, and rabbit and hare. You see the odd kiwi and harrier hawk run over on the road. In it goes.”

“What about hedgehogs?”

“It's a bit messy getting rid of their prickles, but they've got a nutty flavour. By now, Old Furry's starting to smell promising. A bottle of beer, some cold tea, a nip of Old Puckeroo, some horseradish sauce –”

“That's hot, horseradish sauce.”

“Just a bit for the flavour. And I'll tell you what goes well when Old Furry's been simmering and muttering away on the stove for a few days…”

“What?”

“I put in a string of Fred Keeley's best pork sausages and move Old Furry off the heat and on to the back of the stove, where he sends up a bubble just now and then.

“You take the lid off, have a sniff, stir him around, and those bubbles wink and pop. That's how you know you've got just the right heat.

“Leave him simmering like that overnight, with Fred's pork sausages bumping around, swelling up bigger and bigger. Next morning, you have one of those frosts when Old Tip refuses to get out of bed, and you get the fire going in the stove, and Old Furry stirs and winks in his pot, and fills the kitchen with his smell. Next thing you know, Old Gotta Henry sticks his head in the back door, nostrils opening and closing, licking his lips.

“
‘
Gotta bit of Old Furry, Trev?' he asks, and sits at the table still in his sou-wester and gumboots. It wouldn't do for your mother.

“Old Tip can't ignore the smell any longer, so he gets out of bed and comes in wagging his tail and walking sideways, and he cleans up a bowlful of Old Furry and a couple of them pork snarlers. Then Old Toot's nudging the back door open with his nose and wanting some Old Furry to warm him up. And Old Satan starts bellowing in his paddock. There's nothing like a frost to give everyone on the farm an appetite.”

“What about the cows?”

“What about the cows?”

“Do they like Old Furry?”

“It's a strange thing, that,” said Uncle Trev. “I've yet to meet a cow, or a sheep, for that matter, who enjoys a bowl of hot soup. Of course, the pigs love Old Furry.”

“But with pork sausages and bacon bones?”

“Your pig, he's a bit of a cannibal, you know.”

I thought of that. “I'd like some for my breakfast,” I said.

“I don't know if your mother would let you.” Uncle Trev shook his head. “Old Furry's not the sort of soup she approves of, if you know what I mean.” He tapped his nose with his finger.

I gave a sigh.

“Now, whatever you do,” said Uncle Trev, “don't let on to your mother that I told you what goes into Old Furry. If she finds out, she'll torture you on the rack till you tell her.”

“The rack?”

“A diabolical torture machine those women keep down in the hall for their Institute meetings. They keep it hidden under the stage. Anyone who doesn't toe the Institute line, they strap them to the rack and turn the big wheel.”

“What for?”

“It stretches you till your joints crack, your tendons creak, and your eyes pop out. Nobody can stand up to the rack.”

“I could.”

“Not a show. They put Old Gotta on the rack that time we galloped our horses into the hall and broke up their meeting. We were wearing masks so they couldn't tell who we were, but Old Gotta fell off his horse, and they grabbed him.”

“Didn't you rescue him?”

“I only managed to gallop outside by the skin of my teeth. They barred the door, so I rode Old Toot alongside a window, but they locked the shutters from inside. I climbed on the roof and started ripping off a sheet of iron, but it was already too late. I could hear the sound of the ratchet clicking on the rack. It only took a couple of turns of the wheel, and Old Gotta was screaming for mercy. The ratchet clicked again, and he put the blame on me. ‘It was all Trev's idea,' he shrieked. ‘I give in.'

“They let him off the rack, and I jumped off the roof on to Old Toot's back as those women threw Old Gotta out the door. I helped him on his horse and led him back to his farm. Poor Old Gotta, he couldn't bring himself to meet my eye.”

“Why not?”

“He was ashamed of giving in. Now, of course, they're after me.”

“What'll they do if they catch you?”

“Put me on the rack. And they won't let me off easy like Old Gotta.”

“Hadn't you better get going?” I said. “Mum could catch you if you're still here when she gets home.”

“I'm on my way,” said Uncle Trev. “Hooray.”

“It's not fair,” I told Mum that night.

“What's not fair?”

“Trying to catch Uncle Trev and torture him on the rack.”

Mum looked at me. “If you go listening to any more of that man's stories, I'll put you on the rack myself.” She slammed out to the kitchen and banged the pots around. I hadn't known whether to believe Uncle Trev or not, but now I realised he'd been telling the truth about the Women's Institute and the rack.

That's why I'm lying very straight and quiet in my bed, not moving my legs, and trying not to breathe too loud. I don't want to be tortured, and I'll bet you wouldn't like it either.

Chapter Sixteen

What Happened When Old Tip Got Above Himself

“Old Tip's getting above himself,” Uncle Trev said. He reached into the blue biscuit tin, took out a gingernut, and dipped it in his tea.

“Mum won't let me do that. She says it's a rule in this house.”

Uncle Trev grinned, and sucked tea and gingernut through his moustache with a noise like
sloop
.

“Some people miss out on the best things in life because of rules.” He held up another gingernut. “Have you ever thought the Waharoa Women's Institute is remarkably like the army?”

I wasn't sure what he meant.

“When Old Gotta and I were called up,” said Uncle Trev, “the army told us when to wake, when to sleep, when to eat, even when to go to the dunny. They had a rule for everything. By the time the war finished, we'd stopped thinking for ourselves.”

Uncle Trev dipped the gingernut in his tea, washed it down with another gulp, and I heard that sound sloop again. He nodded and said, “If those Institute women didn't have rules to tell them what to do, they wouldn't know whether to moo, baa, or cluck.”

What if Mum came home and caught Uncle Trev dipping her gingernuts in his tea? Even worse, what if his terrible words were still echoing around the kitchen? Her remarkable ears picked up everything.

“Mooo,” Uncle Trev went. “Baaa,” he said. “Cluck, cluck, cluck.”

“She'll give us both a hiding.”

But Uncle Trev wouldn't stop. “No one in the Waikato bakes a better gingernut than your mother, some say the best in the Southern Hemisphere. But does she ever allow herself to enjoy her gingernuts? Not on your Nelly. The Waharoa Women's Institute's Rule Three says no lady dips a gingernut in her tea. So your poor mother can never really enjoy her own magnificent baking. Mooo. Baaa. Cluck, cluck, cluck.”

He grinned at my face, reached into the blue tin, took out another gingernut, dipped it in his tea, and mumbled and sucked it through his moustache even louder. “That,” he said, “is a real gingernut. Just the right amount of ginger to fill my mouth with dribble.

“Like I was saying, your mother misses out on many of the finer things in life. Mind you, I wouldn't go telling her that, or you might get a clip over the ears. She'd probably say you were getting above yourself.”

“That's what you said about Old Tip,” I gabbled, trying to stop Uncle Trev mooing, baaing, and clucking, and talking about the Institute.

It worked. “You're right,” said Uncle Trev. “Old Tip's fond of a gingernut and he'd dip them in his tea if I gave him half a chance. He's been getting above himself enough as it is.”

“What's he done?”

“Remember I told you how he went bolshie a while back, and wouldn't bark?”

“Yes.”

“He's talking now of moving over to Hamilton and selling insurance – one of the rackets the smart boys get into, the ones with the bow ties and those nasty little moustaches, and they all drive American cars.”

“How could he sell insurance?”

“Old Tip can be pretty persuasive. Look at the way you believe anything he tells you…I'm afraid quite a few people would fall for his patter.”

“But he'd need a car to get around the district, and that costs a fortune. Mum says we can't afford one.”

“Old Tip's not short of money.”

“Where'd he get it from?”

“Off the gee-gees.”

I looked at Uncle Trev.

“Every race meeting within fifty miles, Old Tip's been turning up wearing his brown pin-striped suit, his member's ticket dangling off a waistcoat button, and his felt hat pulled down over his eyes. He's put on some big bets; what's more, his horses have been romping home. Outsiders, the lot, so nobody else bothered to bet on them. Old Tip's made a killing.

“The Governor-General's setting up a royal commission to inquire into it. They won't let Old Toot on a racecourse, because they still have their suspicions about him after that business over at Te Aroha a few years ago, but they've got nothing on Old Tip except that he's walked away from every meeting in the Waikato this summer with his pockets bulging.”

“I wonder what he knows?”

“It's not what you know in racing,” said Uncle Trev. “It's who you know.”

“You mean he bribes the jockeys?”

“Old Tip's too cunning for that. I reckon he's bribing the horses.”

“Heck.”

“I told you he's getting above himself. I tried to warn him, but do you think he'll listen to me? He's been putting on bigger and bigger bets, and winning bigger and bigger money. Something's got to give.”

Uncle Trev jammed the lid back on the blue tin. “Tell your mother I enjoyed the gingernuts,” he said, and he was gone, but as he went past the kitchen window he stuck his head inside and went, “Mooo, baaa, cluck, cluck, cluck” again. I was so scared, I got out of bed and opened all the windows and doors to let out the echoes before Mum came home.

A week later, Uncle Trev came in and went straight for the cupboards as usual, but Mum had hidden the blue tin. “You tell your uncle he's not coming in here and making a meal of gingernuts,” she'd said before going to the Institute. So Uncle Trev made himself a cup of tea and set himself to eating his way through a tinful of her Louise cake.

“How's Old Tip?” I asked, before he could say anything terrible about the Women's Institute.

Uncle Trev grinned. “He came a cropper at Paeroa. Serves him right for getting above himself. He put a packet on an outsider, all his winnings. If it had won, he'd have cleaned up enough to retire on, but it came in behind the rest of the field, and Old Tip did his money. Everything he owned.”

“All his winnings?”

Uncle Trev nodded. “That put the kibosh on moving over to Hamilton. He's not going to wear a bow tie, grow one of those nasty little mo's, buy an American car, and sell insurance after all. He's had to pull his head in and do some work for a change. I can tell you, Old Tip's a different man. All the better for a few rules in his life, I told him.”

“That's not what you said about the Institute.”

“Sometimes,” said Uncle Trev, “I don't know whether it's you or your mother talking.”

“I'm glad Old Tip's not going to live in Hamilton. It wouldn't be the same.”

“I'm not telling him that,” said Uncle Trev, “or he might get above himself again and start dipping his gingernuts in his tea.”

“Can I believe my ears?” Mum's voice demanded loudly from the back door. She'd come home early. Uncle Trev went for his life, but she grabbed the broom and chased him out to his lorry.

“Teaching that smelly old dog to dip my gingernuts in a cup of tea,” she told me, “I've never heard the likes of it. And you sat there and listened to every word and believed it? Sometimes I wonder where I got you from, I really do.”

“Old Tip's been banned off all the racecourses in the Waikato,” I told Mum.

“If you believe that, you'll believe anything. That uncle of yours, as he drove off he wound down his window and went ‘Moo', and he went ‘Baa', and he went ‘Cluck, cluck, cluck' at me. Now why do you suppose he did that?”

I shook my head.

“I think he's losing his wits. It's living out there on that farm, nobody to talk to but that Mr Henry next door. Men like those two need a few rules to keep them in order. I hope you didn't tell him where I hid the gingernuts?”

I shook my head. “Uncle Trev said to tell you he enjoyed the Louise cake.”

“My Louise cake?” Mum cried. “I'll give that man Louise cake.”