The Haystack (9 page)

A
FTER SCHOOL, MILLY EXPLORED THE COALSHED
; she went into the darkness and didn’t come when I called. I sat on the back step and, suddenly, she was there, shaking her head as if she was going to sneeze, wiping her paw over her ears, like the time she explored the chimney.

“You will go poking your nose into the cobwebs.” I put her inside, and ran down to the shops.

So many of the girls came home with me, Dad said he never knew who he’d find having lunch, but he didn’t mind, not really. I asked Flora Guy, and she said, “I’ve got two grey cats at home with black stripes and eyes like barley-sugar. So there!” and she looked away.

Milly explored the shed under the other tank-stand, sniffing between the jars of bottled fruit. By the time I took her down to the bottom shed, she was used to being outside. She disappeared among the barrels, and I was scared she might have met a giant rat like the one
that wanted to fight Dad, but she came out, sat down, and washed and wiped her face and ears, as usual.

The first time she met the chooks, she stuck her tail straight up, bent her back, and spat. I remembered what Dad said about the wicked old white rooster pecking my eyes, but he was out in the paddock, so she was okay.

It got colder; we kept the doors closed and sat near the stove. We had stews, and Dad made Old Furry soup out of old bacon bones, old split peas, old carrots, old parsnips, old potatoes, and any-old-anything-else he could find in the cupboards.

“A bowl of Old Furry a day keeps the scurvy away,” he sang, and I sang back, “Old Furry’s so thick it makes Milly sick.” Then Dad said he was going to fill the hot water bottle with Old Furry, and I gulped.

Milly grew bigger and became an outside cat while I was at school each day. The old rooster squawked a warning to the chooks once, and I ran to see if there was a hawk, but it was Milly crouching on their roof, her barley-sugar eyes glaring like a tiger’s.

Dad read his way through both
Jungle Books,
and Mowgli killed Shere Khan with the help of the buffaloes, spread his striped skin on the Council Rock, and said, “Look well, O Wolves!” I liked the sound of that so much, I tried saying it to Freddy Jones each time we met, but he didn’t understand because his father didn’t read
The Jungle Books
to him.

The chapter about the bees killing the Red Dogs was scary, but nothing frightened me as much as Kaa, when he hypnotised the Bandar-log. I loved the story about Rikki-tikki-tavi, but Milly wouldn’t be a mongoose.

Dad told me, “You can’t make a cat be anything it doesn’t want to be, Maggie. They’re what you call independent.”

“What’s that?”

“They’ve got a mind of their own.”

“Anyway,” I said, “it takes too long to say Rikki-tikki-tavi every time I call her.”

Milly enjoyed winter: she slept on my bed, in front of the fire, and in the sun on my windowsill, but I still had to run to school through the frost. Freddy Jones showed off, cracking the ice on the puddles with his bare feet, trying to be tough, then rubbed his red toes on the back of his legs under his desk and looked thoughtful.

“Chilblains,” Dad said. “That reminds me.”

One Friday night, Mr Carter gave us a lift to Matamata, and we went to the Broadway Café, where the waitress wiped the table and said, “What are you going to have?” She brought us fish and chips and a whole plateful of buttered bread, and Dad had a cup of tea, but it was too strong for me. Then we went to Hannahs.

Mr Craig perched like a chook on the other end of the little stool, said “Put your foot up here”, and used a shoehorn to get my foot in. He pushed with his fingers
to make sure there was plenty of room at the toes, and that the shoes were wide enough.

“‘Flat shoes, fat shoes’,” I whispered.

“Wouldn’t mind a bob for every time I’ve heard that.” Mr Craig laughed.

When we got home, Dad said, “At least I know your feet are warm. Besides, those old ones were getting tight.”

“This dress is a bit tight, too.”

“It’ll have to last you the winter, but I really must do something about your clothes this summer. I can buy shorts and shirts for you; it’s the dresses that worry me. Mrs Dainty’s bound to know somebody who does sewing, who’ll run up something for you, for next year.

“We were lucky you had all those things to grow into, the last couple of years. I didn’t even know your mother had them put away.”

We’d found the clothes in the big cupboard in the spare room, laid carefully between soft tissue paper, with mothballs. “I knew there were spare sheets and towels, things like that,” Dad said, “but not clothes for you. Just as well we came across them when we did.”

“Why?”

“Well, at the rate you’re growing…”

We hung them out to air, but the sharp stink of mothballs took a while to go, even in the sun and wind.

“Why did Mummy put away all the clothes for me?” I asked.

“She liked to have things ready,” said Dad. “Some of those dresses, she might have been given. Women pass on clothes their children have grown out of, anything with a bit of wear in it.

“A lot of people can’t afford to buy new things. Most kids are lucky to get cast-offs and hand-me-downs.”

“Is it the Depression?”

“The Depression’s not making it easy, but clothes always get handed down, specially in a big family.”

“All Colleen’s things get handed down to her. She says it’s not fair.”

“Is she still trying to skip?”

“Not vinegar and pepper, and she can’t run in, but she can start from standing for a few skips before her leg gets tired.”

Dad held up some of my old baby clothes, a little dress ruched in front, tiny knitted bootees, and a crochet woollen cap—all with pink ribbons through the gathers.

“Did I fit into those?”

“Babies are pretty small. I suppose your mother kept them to look at, when you got bigger. Perhaps I should give them to somebody.”

“Can’t I keep them?”

“If you want to.”

“Did Mummy make them?”

“Like I said, women pass on a lot of stuff. You’ll see things go the rounds of umpteen different babies.
Bassinets, prams, and cots. But, yes, all your baby clothes your mother made herself, before you were born.”

“For me?”

“She said you were always going to be special, her first baby, so she must have everything ready for you. By the time you were born, the drawers were so full, your mother said she was going to have to put several lots of clothes on you at once, or you’d grow out of them before they got any wear.”

I laughed. “Several lots. Was Mummy good at sewing?”

“She’d run up something on her sewing machine in the blink of an eye.”

“I wish I could sew.”

“Look at all the things you’ve made at school. You can darn socks, and knit. What about the blanket you sewed from peggy squares for Milly?”

“That’s not real sewing. Besides, Milly doesn’t like sleeping under it.”

“She likes sleeping on top of it though.”

“Dad, why are they called peggy squares?”

“After a girl down in Wellington, Peggy somebody or other. She made a blanket of them: it was in the paper, and the next thing, the idea caught on throughout the whole of the Dominion.”

“Was she the first?”

“That’s what the paper said.”

“I could make Bagheera a blanket. I wonder if he’s become a reliable cat?”

“I saw Mr Bluenose down at the shops, and he said to tell you that Bagheera’s a great hunter, like a black panther.”

“I might go down to the orchard tomorrow.”

“Take the basket to school with you, and you can go to the shops on your way home.”

Mr Bluenose was digging potatoes out of a clamp, to send off on the train.

“Bagheera? He is around somewhere. Give him a call. But he will only come if he wants to. He is—what do you say, Maggie?”

“Independent?”

“That is it, independent. I think you say he is a cat who knows his own mind.”

But I was already running through the orchard, between the rows of fruit trees, their pruned branches like tortured fingers.

“Bagheera! Bagheera!”

“Hello, Horse.” I stopped and patted him. Most of the pigs had gone, but the breeding sows oinked.

“Has anyone seen Bagheera?” I ran on.

I’
D ALMOST GIVEN UP
, then saw the entrance to the gloomy tunnel under the macrocarpa branches and ran in.

“Bagheera!”

Mr Bluenose’s pumpkins glowed red and yellow in the dark. Something moved, and my feet stuck to the ground as I remembered the ghost that once floated down the tunnel, and scared the living daylights out of Freddy Jones and Billy Harsant.

I thought of Kaa’s enormous mouth, stared into his eyes, and heard his terrible voice hiss: “Come one pace nearer to me.” I swayed forward one step, a piece of blackness moved out of the dark, and rubbed itself around my legs, and I shrieked.

“Bagheera!” His chin wasn’t as pointed, but his eyes were still bright green.

“You found him,” said Mr Bluenose’s voice.

I gulped.

“He likes having somebody to stroke him. Perhaps I do not make enough—enough fuss of him. But he is what I want.”

“A reliable cat?”

Mr Bluenose nodded. “Last week, he killed his first rat and dragged it inside to show me. Twice as long as himself.”

“Milly hasn’t caught anything yet.”

“She will.”

“I hope she doesn’t bring any rats inside.”

I called Bagheera a reliable cat, and he purred, like Mr Bluenose’s crosscut sawing through a log. “Milly purrs, Mr Bluenose, but she sounds like a little steam engine. She watches the chooks from on top of the shed, and her tail lashes. And Dad read me
The Jungle Books
about Mowgli and Bagheera and Baloo.”

“And Kaa?” Mr Bluenose hissed so loud he had to wipe his chin.

“I thought Kaa was dragging me into the dark, under the macrocarpas.”

“‘We be of one blood, thee and I’,” said Mr Bluenose. “Say that, and you will be safe from Kaa.”

“Wasn’t it scary when the bees stung the Red Dogs to death? But when Kaa hypnotised the Bandar-log, and Baloo and Bagheera nearly walked down his throat with them…I still dream about that.”

Mr Bluenose laughed. “I also am still afraid of Kaa.”

“Do you remember it?”

“I read it aloud to Bagheera, this winter, as your father was reading it to you.”

“Did Bagheera know his name when he heard it?”

“He growled and lashed his tail. Put these in your basket.”

Bagheera had disappeared back into the tunnel, but I called out hooray, patted Horse, scratched the sows’ backs, and ran, eating one of the Granny Smiths and swinging the basket with the other hand.

Juice running down my chin and dripping down my front, I took the short-cut through the fern by the blacksmith’s to dodge Mrs Dainty.

Up the post office steps that were cold today: “Hello, Mr Barker,”—into the baker’s: “Hello, Mrs Besant,”—along to the butcher’s: “Thanks, Mr Cleaver,”—and on to the store.

“Half a pound of Bushells, a reel of white cotton, and the paper, please. Dad’s going to beat me home,” I said to the Kelly girl.

“Mr Bluenose’s kitten, Bagheera, has grown into a black panther,” I told Mr Bryce. “He’s got a friend, a brown bear called Baloo, and they hunt together in the dark tunnel under the macrocarpas. I don’t believe in ghosts, so I’m not scared to go in there.”

Mr Bryce handed me our paper. “You’re very brave.”

“The black panther brought a rat home to show Mr Bluenose, but he had to go outside to see it, because it was too big for Bagheera to drag through the door.”

“How did he kill it?”

“You know the pumpkins Mr Bluenose keeps under the macrocarpas? Bagheera bowled them down the tunnel and squashed the rat flat, like the buffaloes and Shere Khan. And then Bagheera’s friend, Baloo, sat on the rat and squashed it flatter still. Baloo’s pretty fat, you know.”

“Remarkable!” said Mr Bryce, looking for his glasses.

“They’re on top of your head.”

“Thanks. Did you see all this yourself?”

“Mr Bluenose told me a bit, Bagheera told me another bit, and I made up the rest.”

“I see.”

“I’m not really very brave, Mr Bryce. There’s a giant snake called Kaa who lives in the tunnel, and he’s supposed to be my friend, too, but I’m scared he’ll forget and eat me.”

“Give him the Snake’s Call: ‘We be of one blood, thee and I’, and you’ll be okay. Where are those glasses?”

“Her father’ll be wondering where she’s got to,” said the Kelly girl.

“I liked your story about squashing the rat, even if you did pinch the idea out of
The Jungle Book.”
Mr Bryce gave me a couple of boiled lollies out of the big jar. “I liked Baloo sitting on it and squashing it even flatter.”

I stared. How did Mr Bryce know about Shere Khan’s death and the Snake’s Call? I was so busy wondering about that, I forgot to thank him. I had to get in our gate before it was dark and didn’t want to run into Mrs Dainty, so I only stopped to cough and roar a couple of times outside Freddy Jones’s and make some fresh paw marks, good and big.

Dad had lit the stove. “I was just beginning to think you’d forgotten your way home. Thanks.” He unwrapped the meat. “We’ll prick these sausages, give them a few minutes’ simmer, and pop them in the oven.”

“Mr Cleaver didn’t tell me we were having sausages.”

“Best snarlers in the Waikato. Tea’s going to be late. There’s bread and jam on the bench. Help yourself. Just to keep the wolf from the door.”

While Dad was pricking the sausages and putting them in the saucepan, I told him, “Mr Bluenose read
The Jungle Books
to Bagheera. He gave us some Granny Smiths, and I ate a big one while I was running over to the shops. I’ll feed the chooks. Where’s Milly?”

“I fed them. She’s around somewhere.”

“Milly! Time to—” Before I could finish, she was rubbing my legs. I picked her up, and told her about Bagheera, about his chin and eyes, and how he killed a huge rat and unrolled its skin on the Council Rock, but she jumped down and rubbed herself against Dad.

“You’d think she’d want to hear about her brother.”

“She’s embarrassed because she hasn’t caught a rat herself. And she might just be more interested in these.” Dad was filling the roasting dish with swollen sausages out of the saucepan.

“I love them done in the oven,” I said. “Specially when you simmer them first.”

“It’s the simmering makes the sawdust inside them swell up.”

“Mr Cleaver said he’ll biff you one, if you keep saying his snarlers are full of sawdust.”

“You didn’t tell him I said that?”

“Mrs Dainty was there, and she sniffed and said she wouldn’t have sausages, thank you, not if they were filled with sawdust.”

“You’ll get me hanged. What’s happening down at the orchard?”

“The apple trees look as if they’ve had their fingers cut off. Horse was wearing his cover ‘cause he’s feeling the frosts, and most of the pigs have gone. Bagheera scared me in the dark under the macrocarpas. I thought he was Kaa.

“Dad, Mr Bryce knew about the Snake’s Call, and he said I’d be safe if I remembered to say it before going into the dark tunnel.”

“We be of one blood, thee and Milly and me,” Dad said, and Milly miaowed and rubbed herself harder against his legs.

“Fancy Mr Bluenose and Mr Bryce knowing about Mowgli.” I was spreading the tablecloth.

“They’d have read
The Jungle Books
when they were boys.” Dad handed me the knives and forks. “Mr Bluenose must have had a translation.”

“Did you read them?”

“Yes, and your mother, of course. And now you and Milly.”

“And Bagheera. Just think, all around the world, people have been reading
The Jungle Books.
Except for Freddy Jones. I bet he’d be too scared.”

Dad cooks the best sausages, gravy, and mashed potatoes in the world. He boils the potatoes in the same water, and mashes them with salt, a bit of butter, and milk. Mmm—the smell when Dad opens the oven and takes out the roasting dish full of round, glistening, shiny-brown sausages with crunchy skins. The pop as the skin splits when you stick in your fork, the juice, the first mouthful, the taste and feel in my mouth. Mmm! The only trouble is the evil cabbage.

“If Mrs Dainty cooked roast sausages with gravy and mashed potatoes—” I wiped my mouth all around with my tongue “—then Mr Dainty wouldn’t have run away.”

“Don’t you go saying that outside these four walls.”

“I wonder if he had to eat evil cabbage all the time?”

Dad said nothing.

I kept half a sausage for the end, held my nose and
finished the last mouthful of cabbage. My tongue wrinkled and curled up round the edges as I spread mashed potato and gravy all over it to take the taste away, then ate a bit of sausage, then another, till there was only the last little bit looking at me.

“Sorry,” I told it and gobbled it down.