Uncle Trev and the Whistling Bull (5 page)

Chapter Nine

Why the Rawleigh's Man Wouldn't Ever Go Back Up Uncle Trev's Road

“The only way I could get Old Gotta on to his feet, wearing that suit of armour,” said Uncle Trev, “was to throw a rope over a rafter and hoist him up.

“While he was hanging in mid-air, I gave him a good spin around for a couple of minutes, just for fun, then I lowered him on to his feet, and he fell over again. Too dizzy to stand up.”

“Didn't he complain?”

“He moaned away inside his helmet, but there wasn't much he could do about it. I got him on his feet again, loosened one or two nuts with the crescent, squirted a bit of oil here and there. His armour screeched, but we knew now that those old knights must have been pretty rowdy, squeaking and grinding whenever they moved. You can imagine the din when they got knocked off their horses.

“The old silent film hadn't told us anything about the noise. Besides, there was your mother thumping away at the piano, with one eye on the screen. And of course the kids always kicked up a hullabaloo, so it wasn't surprising we hadn't heard the noise from the knights' armour.”

“I used to like going to the pictures.”

“You'll be seeing them again, now you're getting better.” Uncle Trev took a mouthful of tea. “I gave Old Gotta a tea-tree stick to keep his balance, and he strode out into the paddock and brandished the stick like a sword. We'd been working on that suit of armour all night, and it was broad daylight.

“The magpies who lived in the belt of pines took one look and attacked Old Gotta, their beaks rattling on his armour. You should have heard him shout inside his helmet. The magpies couldn't make out where the noise was coming from, and flew away. Funny beggars, magpies. Ever since then, they've nested in the macrocarpa over at my place, the one beside Old Tip's kennel.”

“What happened next?”

“I went home to do my own milking and had just finished when I realised things weren't right over at Old Gotta's shed. Your average cow is a fairly conservative creature, you know. She wants everything the same each day. She likes to go into the same bail, and she wants the same person in the same clothes, saying the same things to her, like she's used to. The last thing she wants is a strange suit of armour clanking round the shed and slapping on the cups.

“The first cow Old Gotta tried to leg-rope, she kicked him sideways. He staggered backwards, and another cow butted him. They knocked him down, ran over the top of him, and donged his armour full of dents.

“Old Tip held the cows back while I helped Gotta out of his armour, and you know he put on his old dungarees and those cows knew who he was at once and let down their milk, no trouble.

“Old Gotta lost interest in being a knight after that. He stood the suit of armour in the spare bail in his shed, and his cows soon got used to it.

“Then, one day, he came over and said, ‘Gotta bit of timber, Trev?' I gave him that, and he said, ‘Gotta few nails Trev?' Then it was, ‘Gotta hammer, Trev?' and, ‘Gotta saw, Trev?' I didn't ask what he was up to, but went over later and Old Gotta was up my ladder that he'd borrowed earlier, building battlements around his roof, turning his house into a castle.

“Now, there was a new Rawleigh's Man working his way up our road, selling lumbago pills and furniture polish to the cockies' wives, and we thought we'd have a bit of fun with him. Old Gotta climbed on the roof, behind his wooden battlements, and I bolted him into his armour. We had to do it up there, 'cause he couldn't climb the ladder wearing it.

“The new Rawleigh's Man came bouncing across the paddock in his Model T, got out with his bag, and Old Gotta leaned over the battlements, swung a spiked ball on a chain around his head, and shouted, ‘Confound thee, base caitiff.' ”

“Confound thee, base caitiff,” I repeated to Old Tip, who barked.

Uncle Trev nodded. “
‘
Darest thou assail my castle?' Old Gotta swung his spiked ball, belted himself on the back of his kerosene-tin helmet, fell off the battlements, and landed on the concrete path with a noise like a brass band dropped from an aeroplane.”

“Where were you?”

“I was sitting on Old Toot,” said Uncle Trev, “sticking my head around the corner of the house. I didn't tell you, but I'd made myself a suit of armour, too, so I could join in the fun.

“I shouted, giddupped Old Toot, and galloped out, waving a wooden sword painted with aluminium to make it look real. The Rawleigh's Man thought there were two lunatics.

“I was so worried about Old Gotta, I forgot I was wearing armour, leapt off Old Toot and landed on my back with another tremendous clang. The Rawleigh's Man's face turned white, but I told him, ‘Give us a hand to get off this armour. We'd better have a look at my mate.'

“He got a spanner out of his Model T, undid my armour, and I knelt by Old Gotta's body.”

“Was he all right? Mr Henry, I mean?”

“Luckily, I'd been using the tin-snips earlier to get my own armour to fit, and now I cut the dented armour off Old Gotta. All he had was a blood nose from flattening it against the inside of his helmet.

“The Rawleigh's Man saw the chance to demonstrate what he wanted to sell, and he rubbed Old Gotta's nose with something out of a bottle. ‘This'll put you right. Just the thing for sprains and bruises.' He handed me the bottle, and I saw it was horse liniment. He was a new Rawleigh's Man.

“That horse liniment is pretty strong stuff. Old Gotta leapt to his feet, neighing like Old Toot, hurdled the fence and charged up the bull paddock. His nasty old Jersey bull took one look, and bolted as Gotta leapt screaming into the trough. The water round his nose sizzled and bubbled as the liniment cooled down.

“
‘
If I were you,' I told the Rawleigh's Man, ‘I'd take off before he gets out of that trough.' He cranked his old Model T and bumped away down the paddock towards the gate. As he opened it, he looked back and saw Gotta coming after him, still wearing bits of armour, steam coming off his nose, and waving an axe he'd picked up as he ran past the house.

“
‘
Make sure you close that gate, or me stock'll get out on the road,' Old Gotta shouted, but the Rawleigh's Man was gone.

“He's never come out our way again, says everyone up our road is mad. Here, what's up?” Uncle Trev demanded, as Old Tip growled and dived out the window.

Next thing, Mum came in, sniffed the air, boiled the kettle, and gave Uncle Trev a cup of tea and a piece of fruit cake that had been left over from afternoon tea at the Institute.

Uncle Trev tapped his finger on the side of his nose and winked at me. I knew what that meant, so, after he'd gone, I told Mum that Uncle Trev had said the Rawleigh's Man had called, trying to sell some new sort of ointment for sprained backs.

“Much chance of him selling any of that to your uncle, nor to that neighbour of his, that Mr Henry. They never do enough work to hurt their backs.”

“Mum, Uncle Trev said he and Mr Henry were thinking of making suits of armour and having a tournament, you know, knocking each other off their horses with lances.”

Mum came out and stood in my door. “And they like to think they're grown men?” she said. “Don't you imagine for a minute that you're going to go dressing up in any suit of armour.” She sniffed. “Can I smell that dog?”

“I don't think so,” I said, and it was only then I remembered Uncle Trev had said Old Tip had something he wanted to tell me.

Chapter Ten

Mum's Tipsy Cake and the Governor-General

“What are you sulking about?”

“I am not.”

“You heard me come in but you didn't call out…”

“Last time,” I told Uncle Trev, “you said Old Tip had something he wanted to tell me.”

“Oh, that!”

“It's not much fun, lying here all day and nobody tells you anything.”

“Look,” said Uncle Trev, “the other day Old Tip was so busy listening to that story about how Old Gotta scared the Rawleigh's Man, he didn't have time to tell you his question. Then your mother came home sooner than we expected, and Old Tip didn't dare say anything because she'd go off pop at a dog thinking he can talk. You know that.”

I nodded.

“What Old Tip wanted to ask was, did you ever hear the story of your mother's tipsy cake and the Governor-General?”

“Tipsy cake?”

“Old Tip's favourite story. He's always at me to tell it again.”

“You've never told it to me.”

“It doesn't seem fair on Old Tip. He's the one who wanted to hear it, and he's not here today.”

“You can still tell it to him some other time.”

“I suppose so. But you'd better not interrupt. Your mother could be home any minute, and it's not her favourite story.”

“Tell us?”

“I'll just take a look down the road and make sure she's not coming.”

“She's run into somebody down at the shops and they're having a good old natter. She'll be ages.”

“All the same…” Uncle Trev cocked his head and listened.

“I'll hear the gate.”

“Make sure you do. It's as much as my life's worth…Now, how does it go?” He took off his hat and scratched his head. I sighed and wriggled against the pillow.

“It all began,” said Uncle Trev, “when the Waharoa Women's Institute wrote to the Governor-General and invited him to afternoon tea. Next thing they knew, he wrote back saying he'd drop in next Wednesday. ‘Don't go to any trouble,' he said in his letter. ‘Just a cup of tea – plenty of milk and two teaspoons of sugar.'

“Do you think your mother and those women on the committee were going to let the Governor-General have just an ordinary old cup of tea? What would Matamata and Walton say?” Uncle Trev rubbed his chin so the bristles rasped. “There's a fair bit of competition goes on between branches of the Institute, you know.”

“Mum says they meet in good fellowship.”

Uncle Trev snorted. “Have you ever watched chooks pecking each other?”

I could see why Uncle Trev didn't want Mum to hear this story.

“The great day came, and there were iced fruit cakes, Louise cakes, sponges, Madeira cakes, cupcakes, queen cakes, butterfly cakes, Afghans, rainbow cakes. Whipped cream fillings, and hundreds-and-thousands scattered all over the icing. Not to speak of Anzac biscuits, gingernuts, peanut brownies, cheese and date scones, and pikelets. Enough tucker to choke a regiment of Governor-Generals, their horses, and their wives.”

“What did Mum take?”

“She thought of all the things those other women would make, and she baked about a dozen sponges so light they could have floated on air all the way down to the Waharoa hall. Nobody bakes a sponge like your mother's, but do you think she was just going to take just an ordinary old sponge for the Governor-General's afternoon tea?”

I shook my head.

“And you'd be right!”

“What did she take?”

Uncle Trev cupped a hand behind his ear.

“That's just the clothesline squeaking as it blows around. Go on.”

“Your mother arrived late, and everyone said, ‘We'd just about given you up. Didn't you bring anything for the Governor-General's afternoon tea?' Truth to tell, they were all a bit relieved. Your mother's got a name for her baking, you know.”

I swallowed.

“She looked around the hall. The night before, they'd stripped half the Kaimais to decorate the walls with nikau leaves and silver ferns. And they'd borrowed the school flag and hung it above the red velvet armchair that Mrs Charlie Smith had lent for the Governor-General to sit in. Everyone had brought along her best lace tablecloth and fine lawn shower for the occasion. Old Mrs Gray had polished up her canteen of silver cutlery and her bone china tea set – Royal Doulton.”

“How did you see? Men aren't allowed at Institute meetings.”

“What your mother baked for the Governor-General's afternoon tea was too big for her to manage on her own, so she'd asked me and Old Gotta to carry it in for her.”

“You said her sponges floated on air.”

“Not with what she'd done with them.”

“What?”

“Taihoa.” Uncle Trev took a breath. “Your mother strode in and cleared the top table with one sweep of her arm, and me and Old Gotta shuffled in sideways carrying what she'd made and put it down. Your mother shooed us outside, but not before we took off the blindfolds and saw what she'd baked.”

“What?”

“The biggest tipsy cake ever.”

“Tipsy cake?”

“Some people call it trifle.”

“I've heard of trifle.”

“Yes, well, it's also called tipsy cake, and for good reason. Old Gotta and I heard the voices screeching at your mother and cleared out. We didn't want to get involved in any scrapping between those women. A man's at a disadvantage with his short fingernails. We scarpered outside, looked down the road, and saw a gold coach heading towards the hall.”

“A gold coach?”

Uncle Trev nodded. “Flags, drums, swords, bugles, and trumpets. The biggest day Waharoa had seen since the time the Rotorua Express thought it was in Matamata and stopped over at the station.”

“Did you see the Governor-General?”

“We saw the plumes on his hat above the heads of his mounted bodyguards, and the ostrich feathers sticking out of his wife's hairdo – she'd had it permed specially. Somebody fired a twenty-one-gun salute, and the Governor-General got down from the gold coach surrounded by wolf hounds.”

“Wolf hounds?”

“He always travels with a pack of wolf hounds.”

“Why?”

“In case of wolves.”

“But there aren't any wolves in Waharoa.”

“The Governor-General doesn't take any chances. He went into the hall, and some of those Institute women brought out cups of tea and slices of your mother's tipsy cake, and handed them up to the bodyguards on their horses. One or two even slipped slices of tipsy cake to the horses and the wolf hounds. That was a bad mistake.”

“But Old Tip likes a bit of cake.”

“So does Old Toot. And if I'm eating cake they always get a slice. But tipsy cake?”

“What's wrong with tipsy cake?”

“Do you know what goes into tipsy cake?”

I shook my head.

“Sherry wine, powerful stuff. Afterwards, your mother said she must have been overcome with the fumes as she tipped it in, but there were some who said she must have been getting stuck into the sherry herself, otherwise why would she have tipped so much into her tipsy cake?”

“What happened?”

“The Governor-General walked into the hall, sniffing, followed his nose straight to your mother's tipsy cake, and crammed down one slice after another. A couple of mouthfuls, and he was tipsy. A few more, and he was singing. Then dancing. Then he kissed all the committee members and cried for his mother, and they called for his bodyguards. But they were all drunk, and his pack of wolf hounds, and the horses, drunk on your mother's tipsy cake.

“They had to borrow a team of sober horses from Mr Weeks, and the postmaster drove the gold coach because the coachman was drunk on tipsy cake. You could hear the Governor-General singing halfway back to Wellington.”

“What did he sing?”

“
‘
Show Me the Way to Go Home.' ” Uncle Trev put his hat back on, and said, “Not a word of this to your mother. She'll scrag me if she knows what I've been saying.” And he was gone.

The gate clicked, and Mum appeared. “Why are you laughing?”

“I'm not laughing.”

“Yes, you were. Has your uncle been in?”

“You've just missed him. Mum, do you think we could have a trifle some time?”

“It's a bit rich for an invalid – all that cream and jam.”

“And sherry?”

“Sherry? You're a mere child, and don't you dare forget it.”

“Mum, why is trifle called tipsy cake?”

“Your uncle's been telling you that story, hasn't he?”

I closed my eyes and pretended to be asleep.

“You don't have to believe everything he tells you, you know. There's not a word of truth in it. Just wait till he comes in again. The trouble with that man is that he can't see a trifle without crossing his eyes and hiccupping at the top of his voice. He and that friend of his, that Mr Henry.”

Mum stormed out to her kitchen. I kept my eyes closed, and saw the Governor-General's gold coach, his mounted bodyguards, his pack of wolf hounds, his coachman, and the Governor-General himself, all singing “Show Me the Way to Go Home” after eating my mother's tipsy cake. No wonder it was Old Tip's favourite story.

“The cheek of the man, sneaking in with his ridiculous stories the moment my back's turned. I'll show him.”

I kept my eyes closed, and that must be why I slept.