The Haystack (14 page)

“I’
M NOT A SLAVE
, Mrs Hoe. I like leading Clop. True. I don’t even have to tell him to giddup; he just knows when. And he never steps over the traces.”

“That doesn’t make it right, dear,” Mrs Hoe smiled, and Laura looked around and smiled and nodded, too. They were tipping out more tea from another billy, stirring in sugar.

“Give that man half a chance, and he’ll have you working like a dog. Leave it to him, and he would have had Laura going down to the shed, when she was no older than you.”

Laura smiled and nodded again.

“And who’s going to be doing the milking this afternoon, while he’s finishing off the stack, I’d like to know, with Sam and Jerry both out here?” Mrs Hoe was rattling plates together.

Mr Hoe ignored her. He and the men were talking,
rolling smokes, lighting pipes. Laura refilled the billy under the stack with oatmeal water, and cut and squeezed in several lemons.

One or two of the men walked out of sight, over behind the hawthorn hedge. Not like Clop. Jerry had taken off his collar and led him across to the trough. He drank and drank and then just peed where he stood, gushing like a hose. And then he chewed away at some grass beside the hedge. He didn’t even sniff at the hay.

“At Home, they built the stack by hand to about a man’s height,” Mr Hoe was saying to Mr Tiddy. “Rammed the shafts of a flat-bed dray into the side, and forked the hay up on to it, and from there up to the crow.

“No sweeps in them days. Carried the hay in on carts and sledges, or forked it into a heap, and dragged it in with a couple of ropes behind a horse. Us boys stood on the bottom rope at the back, held the top one in place, and rode the heaps in, yahooing. We’d skylark and pull each other off.”

I looked at Mr Hoe’s red face and wondered about him being just a boy, skylarking and riding a heap of hay.

“Every wisp of hay forked by hand umpteen times before it got into its place on the stack. You never heard of a pitchfork in our district. It was alway a prong.

“Think times are tough here? A sight harder in the Old Country. My first job was scaring birds off the
crops. A boy this high and alone in a gurt-great field all day. Then the stone-picking. The women and girls helped with that, too.

“They did the tedding and the raking by hand, coming behind the men with the scythes, but it’s all different out here. When Ellerys first got this stacker and hired it out, it speeded things up. The horse rakes and sweeps came along before that, of course, and then the tedder. And now this auto-sweep on the front of your lorry. It’s made a difference today.”

“Some chap Butler down in Taranaki makes them,” said Mr Tiddy. “He’s got a name for inventing things.” Mr Tiddy wore glasses, which he took off, huffed on, and rubbed clean on his shirt.

“It makes it easier, no question of that,” said Mr Hoe.

“It’ll go on a tractor, too,” said Jerry.

“The machines,” Mr Hoe said, putting his back to Jerry, “they’re taking all the skill out of it, as well as the hard work. Any fool can drive a tractor. I tell you, the horseman was somebody on a farm in the old days.”

Jerry tried to say something, but his father took no notice.

“The horse might be slower, but the grass came away better, once your hay was in. I’ve yet to see the tractor that drops dung. A tractor drop dung?” Mr Hoe laughed. “Ha!” He still didn’t look at Jerry, took a swig at his tea, and was quiet again. Dad had told me the Hoes came
from some place in England, and that’s why their voices sounded the way they did.

“The cockies out Mowbray Road,” said Jerry, “they all dibbed in to buy one of those grab stackers between them.” I leaned against the stack, sniffed the hay, and thought Laura had her mother’s voice, but Jerry didn’t sound like his father at all.

“Out Soldiers’ Settlement, they’ve bought one, too,” Jerry said and jerked his head backwards at the red stacker. Suddenly it looked like the gate sweep, old and sorry for itself. “The grab’ll drop its load just where you want it. Makes it a lot easier, if you’re crowing.”

“Ellery’s old stacker will do me,” Mr Hoe told Mr Tiddy. “It’s built every stack on this farm for years, and on a lot of others around the district. It’ll still be building stacks when those new-fangled grab stackers have fallen to bits. All that weight hanging off a steel pole and jib not much thicker than a length of water piping. What about this one that collapsed out at Te Poi, and injured Claude Petch’s oldest boy?”

“They had the stays wrong,” Jerry said. “One went slack, and nobody did nothing about it.”

Still looking at Mr Tiddy, Jerry’s father shook his head. “And this accident out at Wardville today, Stan Peters hooked by a grab, ripped his arm open. It wouldn’t happen with Ellery’s stacker. Pity about losing the others: we’ll be doing well to get it all in by dark.”

“You’ll have to manage without this one,” said Mrs Hoe’s voice. “I’m taking her over to the house. You come along with me, Maggie. Look at the state of your feet, child.”

“We’ll miss you sore, lass,” said Mr Hoe frowning at me. Suddenly his broad red face split open in a smile that made me smile back at him.

“All of us who hire the old sweep stacker, we could buy a grab between us,” said Jerry, “and get rid of the horse.”

His brother, Sam, grinned but said nothing.

“Pull the grab up and down with a rope behind the car,” said Jerry. “You can build round stacks with the grab easier.”

“I’ve always built a barn stack,” said Mr Hoe. “That’s where the old sweep stacker suits me.”

“Everyone’s getting grabs. We’ll be the laughing-stock of the district, still building old-fashioned stacks.”

I was helping Laura and Mrs Hoe load the empty plates and baskets and billies into the car, but saw several of the men look at each other and grin as Jerry said that.

“You jump in the middle, Maggie,” said Laura, getting behind the wheel. I slid on to the wide seat, got one leg under the gear lever, and heard Mr Hoe saying, “The old ways are the best ways.

“Thanks for your help, Maggie,” he called. “You did a man’s job this morning, lassie.”

“Huh!” Mrs Hoe told him, and she got in, squashing me against Laura. “He hasn’t heard the end of this,” she said, and smiled at me.

After the dazzle of the hay paddock, the friendly farmhouse kitchen was so dark, I stood a moment till my eyes could see. Mr Hoe’s red face laughed at me, then I saw it was a jug shaped like a man’s head on the big dresser along one wall.

The stove was going, and Laura was putting something into the oven to bake, yet it seemed cool in there with the windows and doors open. Air moved on my hot face.

“You’re going to have a lie-down,” Mrs Hoe told me in her busy, comfortable voice. “Doing a man’s job, indeed.”

“I like leading Clop, Mrs Hoe.”

“All the same. Here, let me wipe your face and hands.” I turned up my face, and Mrs Hoe ran a wet cloth over it, smooth and cool. It felt good, having somebody do that.

“Tsk, tsk, tsk! As I expected, seeds all through it. Bring me a brush, Laura. You’re a lucky girl, Maggie: you’ve got your mother’s hair, such a headful of curls she had, poor pretty creature that she was.” She wiped my hands and dried them. “Stand on the mat, while I brush out the bits of hay.”

“I’ll dry,” I said. Laura was busy washing the dishes.

“You’ve done enough for the meantime. Come out
here.” Mrs Hoe helped me up into a canvas cot that swung from the verandah roof by ropes. “Just close your eyes, and have a little lie-down. You can lead Clop again later, if you want to, my dear, but you’re to have a rest now.”

I closed my eyes, heard the clink of dishes and voices from the kitchen, the oven door saying “Clunk!” just like ours, and I must have slept. Then I heard the telephone ring, two longs and a short, and Laura’s voice, excited. I blinked, still a bit sleepy, and stretched. A great marmalade cat lay on my feet.

“You’ve had a nice little rest,” said Mrs Hoe’s voice, “and now you’ll be needing to go to the lavvy.” She showed me down the path.

H
OES’ LAVATORY HAD A TRAY
of dirt with a wooden scoop. I could see you were supposed to sprinkle some dirt down the hole after you’d finished. That’s why it didn’t stink so much, I’d tell Dad.

There was a basin of water outside the back door, yellow soap, and a roller towel. I washed my hands, and Mrs Hoe came out and wiped my warm face with a cool cloth again.

“We’re just about to take out the afternoon tea. All that man can think of is getting in his hay. And it’s got to be done, but there’s ways and ways.

“It’s not as if we were back Home where the children worked in the fields, as he said. That was my father’s first job, too, and him just a snip of a boy of five on his own all day from daylight to dark with a rattle to scare the birds off the new-sown seed. Only one boy to a great field, because two would play. ‘Two boys is half a boy,
and three boys no boy at all,’ the farmers said.”

We were inside now, and Mrs Hoe was brushing my hair again. I leaned against her. She didn’t tug my hair with the brush as Dad did when he was in a hurry.

“We don’t want to see child labour out here,” said Mrs Hoe. “I’ll give Hoe a piece of my mind, but it can wait. He’s worried about his hay, thinks it’s going to rain before he’s got it all in; and he’s still feeling bad about putting off his man, but what was he to do, I ask you?” She’d finished my hair and was bustling, filling baskets with food.

“I like your shorts and shirt, Maggie. They’re much more sensible for playing around in; but how is it I never see you wearing a dress?”

“Dad’s got to find somebody who’ll do some sewing for us. He says I’m growing out of everything my mother had put away for me. Dad can sew patches, and put on buttons, and darn socks, but he says a dress is a bit beyond him.”

Billy the marmalade cat watched us load afternoon tea into the car, and we drove out to the stack, the three of us on the front seat again. The lower end of the paddock was swept clear of hay, the cut stubble shining white in the hard sun. The stack was higher and threw more shade.

“They’re getting on with it,” said Laura.

The men didn’t take long over afternoon smoko. The
Dunlops were back, but a couple of other men left to do their milking.

“I’ll bring the cart over to the shed, and pick up the milk,” Jerry said to his mother, and I realised she and Laura were going to have to milk that night. “Don’t you and Laura go trying to shift the cans.”

“It’s all right,” said Laura. “Des said he’ll pick up ours after he’s dropped theirs at the factory. He’ll bring back our cans, and if you haven’t got it in by then he’ll give a hand.”

“It’s okay, having a boyfriend,” Jerry smirked. “Even if he is an R.C.”

“Mind your own business.”

Mr Hoe coughed. “We can do with every pair of hands we can get,” he said, “R.C. or not.” And Mrs Hoe looked at me and told Jerry, “That’s enough of that now. Just you keep a civil tongue in your head when you speak to your sister, young man.”

“I’ll lead Clop again.” I looked at Mrs Hoe and told her, “I had such a good sleep, I’d like to.”

“Are you sure now? That’s a good girl, but only so long as you want to and, if you feel tired at all, you’re to stop at once and come straight over to the house.

“You keep an eye on the child,” Mrs Hoe told Jerry. “Your father can’t think of anything but getting in his hay.” She raised her voice, speaking to no one in particular. “And you watch your language. Little pitchers
have long ears, you know, and she doesn’t miss a trick, this one.”

I knew who Mrs Hoe meant because Dad used to say something like that, only he always said it: “Little pigs have big ears.”

“Them old Kaimais been turning themselves darker all day.” Mr Hoe was looking at the blue hills to the east. “Cloud on Te Aroha spreading south: rain by dark.”

Clop gave a snort to say he was pleased to see me. The sweep ran in and out, the stacker went up and down, and cloud spread along the Kaimais from Mount Te Aroha, softening their sharp blue to misty white, then darker grey. A shower of sparrows dropped by the stack, hopped pecking, and flew into the row of lawsonianas around the church in the corner of the paddock.

After the five o’clock whistle, Dad rode past the church, looking across at the stack, dropped his bike by the stile, and came over. “Good for you!” he told me. He said nothing to anyone else, just took a fork and helped Mr Dickey at the stacker.

Then Mr Bluenose arrived, waved to me, and took over the second rake. A couple more men on their way home from the factory joined us. Somebody arrived with a tractor fitted with another sweep, and the hay came in even faster.

Mr Dunlop and another man were up on the stack with Mr Hoe and Sam. Out we walked, the stacker
tipped, the hay fell, and back we went, but now there was another load ready at once, and out we went again. Clop never stopped.

Everyone moving fast, not saying much. From out at the end of our walk, I could see the top of the stack slanting inwards. The Kaimais a cloudy wall that grew higher fast. When I looked again, the grey wall bulged up the sky, rolled towards us. I felt uneasy.

The last loads came in on the sweeps. First the other man came down, then Mr Dunlop, and they started tidying up around the stack. The sloping top looked like a roof. Mr Hoe and Sam finished off the ridge with the last load, a few forkfuls gathered up from the ground about the stack. I wondered how Mr Hoe knew just how much hay it took.

Jerry drove up a dray loaded with heavy railway sleepers, and several folded tarpaulins. Dad and Mr Dickey heaved the tarpaulins on to the stacker’s teeth.

I clicked, Clop walked out, and the tarpaulins slid on to the stack. We backed up, and I patted Clop’s neck.

Men were running and dragging the sleepers. Mr Hoe and Sam unfolded and tugged the tarpaulins along the top of the stack, the ropes dangling. Dad and Mr Bluenose twitched them to help spread the canvas, and tied their ends to the heavy sleepers.

“So the wind can’t get under the canvas and shift it,”
Dad told me, and from somewhere high in the dark, Mr Hoe’s voice said: “Harvest home!”

Jerry grinned at me and nodded up. “The old man always says that. He’ll be a sight happier, now the covers are on. We’ll thatch it once the weather’s cleared.” Jerry unhooked the traces, and swung them over Clop’s back. “He’s been a bit tetchy all day, like a bear with a sore head—he knew it was going to rain, and we missed having Old Peter Rust. He could build a stack. Fast, too.”

Suddenly, the brown haystack with its green covers stepped forward out of the gloom like an elephant, the red giraffe towering beside it. Mr Tiddy had switched on his headlights just as Des Orr arrived in his cut-down Model A and did the same. I blinked in the dazzle. Men were running, throwing ropes, swingle-trees, harness, Clop’s collar, pitchforks onto the dray. A seething noise rushed towards us over the hedges and paddocks.

“Maggie! You come with me and Des. We’ll run you home.”

But Dad was already piggybacking me across the paddock. “Thanks, Laura!” he called as he ran. He swung me up and over the stile, across the plank, and on to the bar of his bike.

“Where’s Mr Bluenose?”

“Getting a lift,” Dad grunted. “With Mr Tiddy.” He pedalled hard. “Just as well; he’d get a ducking before he’s halfway home.”

A couple of fat drops landed on the backs of my hands where they gripped the handlebars. I hunched myself into Dad and heard the gate click behind us. We rode up the path under the cabbage tree, past the kitchen window, and two more fat drops plopped on my head, then several more as I slipped off by the back step.

I pulled the light cord in the wash-house. There was a roar. Between shoving his bike into the shed and running for the back porch, Dad’s shirt was sleek black. The noise I’d heard coming across the paddocks now strummed the corrugated iron roof to thunder. Inside my head, I saw a picture of raindrops falling where Clop and I had walked, splatters of dust that turned to mud.