Woolgethering: LOVE and ENGLAND

Margan (Enid). This must be in about 1988 as she is wearing a hat Clare and I bought in Thailand that year. I don't know what year she was born and therefore how old she is in this picture. She must be ninety something surely . . .

Mum; Liz Fayle - Kiakoura, 2009

It was about this time that John and I made an important discovery. Greta was in love! She was seventeen, tall and willowy, and Oh! How seriously she took this love, warmly returned by the young man, who although only her own age, was already destined for the Church. We saw them first sitting on a fallen tree in the little pine wood, and he was holding her
hand in both of his, and they were talking earnestly.

Presently the young man took a large silver watch from his pocket, and they both bent over it to
look at the time, then, rising from the fallen tree, they kissed tenderly and parted. They arrived at the house from different directions, only a few moments after we did, and amazed us by greeting each other as if for the first time that day.

“Oh, hullo Bob”, and “Hullo Greta” he replied, smiled at Mary and then talked to my mother who was rescuing the last baby from the too vigorous clutches of Richard.

All through tea-time John and I kept staring first at Greta and then at Bob, until it became noticeable, and Greta said irritably - “What on earth's the matter with you two?”. Whereupon we decided to slip away and discuss the matter privately, lying flat on our stomachs on top of the
“black shed”, our hair and clothes bristling with pine needles.

We reached our hideout by climbing a thickly foliaged tree and crawling along a branch which overspread the roof of the building. It was our own secret place, and no-one else ever found it. We could lie there and watch everything that went on and listen, and best of all we could escape from our father.

We discussed everybody in low voices, and made plans and decisions. We found we didn't care much for our family – the big ones were “bossy” and the little ones were a nuisance, interfering with our plans. John discovered during one of our secret talks that he was going to be an engineer when he grew up.

“What!” I said, aghast, “Not a farmer?”
“No,” he replied firmly, “An engineer” - and an engineer he eventually became.

I didn't discover what I was going to be, and so I felt lonely and separated from John; he knew and I didn't, and I felt somewhere at the back of my mind that the time would surely come when we should have to go our separate ways, he to be an engineer, and I – where should I go?

I felt empty and sad as I crept back along the branch and went slowly home. We had always played together, lied each other out of trouble, and even taken each other's whippings. Now I wondered if John knew how desolate I felt all at once.

My depression, however, was quickly forgotten, temporarily at least, when my father suddenly announced that he would sell up and take us all home to England – we always spoke of England as home, even those of us who had never been outside the South Island of New Zealand. But to my father it really was home. Back to the gentle grey stone house where he was born and which he had left so impulsively more than twenty years ago.

It was time, he said, that we went to proper schools, and learnt to behave like normal children instead of little savages. He had a serious illness at this time too, and the doctor advised a sea voyage and a long rest. We had mixed feelings about England; it seemed impossible that we should leave this, the only home we had known for ever.

I had moments of real panic, it was agony parting with our ponies and all the other treasures we had stored up over the years – years though small in number were a whole lifetime for us. We wandered about looking at this and that, John's little sheepdog, lately acquired, trailing after us.

Through the big granary built after the fire, and past the gravel pit down which John had so dramatically fallen some years earlier, to the pond in the lambing paddock, where we used to
bathe in the hot weather. We pushed through the gorse fence, golden with blossoms, and waded through the sweet honey-scented clover where the bee hives stood. We visited the water race crossing it by a natural bridge, formed by a fallen tree to the little pine wood where the geese were nesting; they thrust their long necks out and hissed at us as we passed.

Then we went to the Whari, but the men were all out, and the place deserted. Even the white cockatoo, the property of the cook, was unfriendly, and sat hunched up in his cage. My mother cried a little at first, knowing that it would be years before she saw her brothers and sisters again; but she loved England, and was soon too busy making preparations for our departure to
dwell on the coming separations. All but my two eldest sisters were sent immediately to stay in
Ashburton with my grandfather, where he had moved after my grandmother's death, two years earlier.

We went to school but didn't seem to learn very much, though I could run faster and jump higher then any other child in the junior school. I hated school, hated Ashburton, and I hated living in my grandfather's house, so near to the town. John and I were bored all the time, we missed our ponies and the wide plains; we realised that our lives had been very self-centred, but also very satisfying.

We didn't know what to do with our spare time, so we were often naughty and mischievous. We shamelessly raided other people's orchards; fought with the horrid boy next door, stole all his toys, and hid them on top of his father's potting shed. We found another neighbour had a belt of hazelnut trees just inside her garden, and paid daily visits to get hazelnuts; we were defiant when caught by the owner, but our defiance quickly turned to shame when she sweetly said we could have as many nuts as we liked, if we would only come in by the gate, and not break down her hedge.

We couldn't understand at first, why we must stay in our own garden – never before had an apple tree on the other side of a hedge borne forbidden fruit for us, and it seemed incredible that so many families should live so close together.

We learned to ride our grandfather's big bicycle by putting one leg through the bars andpeddling like mad to keep the machine on its wheels. When we wanted to get off, there was only one was to do it, and that was to fall off – which we did quite easily by running into the side of the road,
and rolling off comfortably onto the grass.

We used to spend long periods standing on our heads, seeing who could stay up the longest, until my grandfather found us doing it on the roadside, our legs in the air, and our faces scarlet. He was terribly angry, and we were quickly dragged into the house and punished. It seemed most unfair; we had been standing on our heads when the mood took us all our lives, and no-one took any notice; now suddenly, it was a shocking thing to do.

All the time we were in Ashburton after my mother joined us, a sewing woman was kept busy making new clothes for our trip to England. The rolls of material gradually grew smaller, and the piles of finished garments higher. Never before had I seen so many new and beautiful clothes all at once. New trunks were bought and packed, and soon everything was ready, and the luggage was sent off to get to the ship the day before we sailed.

At last we were off, a crowd of relations were there to see us go, and most of them seemed to be in tears. I cried too, but only I think because it was such a dismal scene and I was homesick for the life on the farm that we were leaving for ever. We stood in a row at the ship's rail as she began to move away from the dock, waving at the little group of relations, when suddenly my father saw a pile of luggage which hadn't been put on the ship, and recognised it as ours. There was an immediate uproar.

The first time I ever saw something go wrong and my father powerless to do anything about it, but it didn't prevent him from flying into a rage, and storming off to find someone to vent it on.
My mother was horrified, and wondered how on earth she was going to clothe her nine children for six weeks with only one change of garments each.

Actually the other passengers came to the rescue, and almost everyone provided something so we were quite adequately, if rather quaintly dressed for the rest of the voyage. So at last we were on our way to England, where the two youngest members of our big family were born.

Frances, a dark, bewitching little girl, and lastly Robert. We stood at the rail for a long time watching New Zealand growing smaller and smaller, and the sea grow bigger and bigger.
Then night came down, and we were shut in our small, swaying world; so crowded, and so very different from anything we had ever known....

* * * *

Woolgethering 06 - Show pony

One day my father announced that I was to ride one of the ponies at the forthcoming show at Christchurch, and we immediately began putting the pony into tip-top condition for the occasion. A little extra corn and boiled linseed were added to her diet, not to mentio a few raw eggs broken into her mash. She was groomed and exercised carfully every day, and
rubbed with a velvet pad until she gleamed. Her hooves were oiled and her harness polished.

She became high spirited and difficult with all the good food and extra attention, and by the time we got her on to the Show ground with all the crowds and other horses, and with the band playing close at hand, she was beside herself, and I found her impossible to control. My father tried to calm her down, but she flung him aside, and almost unseated me. My father's face hardened, and he took the riding whip and gave her the thrashing she she deserved – from that moment she behaved perfectly, and was sheer joy to ride.

She understood every slightest movement of my hands and knees, and responded smoothly and neatly, and presently I found myself in the final two for the “Best Girl Rider”. The Judges, finding difficulty in deciding between the two of us laughingly asked if there was anything else we could do to prove our capability.

“Yes”, I replied, “I can ride standing up”. And before anyone could stop me I sprang onto the saddle and cantered round the ring, to the enormous amusement of the crowd, and the embarrassment of my family.

However I was awarded the first prize, and was very pleased with myself, and quite impervious to the black looks I received from my sisters, and the muttered “Show off!” from John. But my father was pleased with me, and that in itself was a rare triumph.

* * * *

Woolgethering 06 - A fight and a fever

Mount Peel - From Ruapuna

The House where Margan Grew Up

It was eleven o'clock on a summer day at our little country school –the junior children were out for break and we were playing a favourite gamecalled “The Token”. One member of a team carrying a small token hidden inthe palm of her hand, had to try and run across a given line without beingcaught by any member of the opposing team – they, of course, didn't know who carried the token. The others of her section acted as decoys, running with her until she was safely over. If she was caught before crossing the line, the team lost a point, and she forfeited the prize.

On this particular day, I was given a little whistle, and with it I ran like the wind; as I was crossing the line I was pounced on by Dolly Spence.

“Got you!” she cried. But I squirrelled up a nearby tree as she made a grab for the whistle. She followed me more cautiously. I crept along the branch, and as Dolly added her weight to mine, the branch swayed dangerously, so she turned back and climbed down again, leaving me in
triumphant possession of the tree and the whistle. Suddenly she snatched upmy hat, which lay on the grass, and ran with it to the earth closet discretely hidden in the trees, some thirty yards away.

Presently she returned without the hat and called out defiantly, “I've thrown it down!”

I was filled with a terrible rage, and wedging the whistle in the fork of a branch, I dropped to the ground, and threw myself upon her with all my strength. Uproar ensued, and continued until our big sisters arrived to restore order. Hitherto Dolly and I had been the best of friends, but now we looked at each other with hate, tears of anger on our cheeks while our
sisters threatened and remonstrated with us.

The next day Dolly arrived with a new hat for me – her own Sunday hat. This had been insisted upon by her mother, and it was indeed a humiliating moment for poor Dolly, when in silence she made the offering, and I awkwardly accepted it. I never wore the hat, and we never mentioned the incident again, but I imagine neither of us forgot it.

My two eldest sisters were away at boarding school by this time, and the house was being enlarged. Two big rooms and a verandah were added, and work was being hurried on, to finish, if possible, before the holidays began. When Greta and Mary came home, the builders had gone, but the rooms were still unfurnished, the floors unstained. This was fortunate as no sooner had they arrived when they went down with scarlet fever, the rest of us following one by one, my father and Beth alone escaping, and the new rooms were turned into sick rooms.

My mother was the last to get it, and while she was at her worst, her second son was born. For many days she lay between life and death, but gradually she began to improve, though it was weeks before she was able to live her normal full life again. For the first time I saw my mother idle, and perhaps that was why I got my first clear picture of her, and became aware, with a feeling of awe, that she was very beautiful. She wore a pink linen frock with a tight buttoned bodice, and her lovely hands were still in her lap; the baby Richard slept in his cradle at her side.

Richard was not a strong baby, but he soon grew into a sturdy little boy, with a most independent and sturdy nature. While he was still a toddler he stood beside me in the lane, holding in his two hands a thick crooked stick. We were watching our uncle, whose farm adjoined ours, jump his horse over the gate from the main road, and come on towards us at a sharp canter. When he came to us, he drew rein, and stooped to hand me an enormous red apple.

He had deep, dark eyes, and his handsome face was bearded. As he rode away I remarked to no­one in particular, “He's like Jesus”.

Richard immediately began to dance about, beating the ground with his stick, chanting “Jesus, Jesus”.

A brood of chickens scattered, and the mother hen flew at him angrily, but he ran after her with
his stick, still shouting, until he fell on his chin, and burst into floods of tears. Strangely, apart from a few such incidents, I don't remember much about him as a small boy, except that he was sweet, and very fat, and that occasionally, for no apparent reason, his sunny nature would cloud over, with black moods of depression.

All through his life he has had these moments, fortunately rare, and of short duration, but I think as puzzling to himself as to his family and friends.

On Sunday mornings we all went to church – so called, though it was only the parish hall, with a platform at one end, and rows of chairs facing it. We would sit in a long line, all uncomfortably clothed in stiffly starched white frocks, long black stockings and shiny black shoes, and we carried a hymn book. All denominations attended, and the service was simple, leading us to believe that if we were good we would go to heaven, and if we were bad we would go to hell. Hell was eternal fire, and quite unthinkable, and heaven was where a very stern and just God had His Kingdom; but Heaven didn't sound very attractive either, except to the saintly few who were certain of a welcome and a crown of glory.

We had to sit perfectly still in Church, looking straight ahead of us, but plenty of entertainment was provided for us by the occupants of the seats immediately in front. Mrs Jaye and her small son Bobby sat there, and Bobby did exactly as he liked, and what he liked was to eat sweets –lollies, we called them – all through the service, rustling his paper bag, and making loud sucking noises. He also liked to kneel on the seat facing us as he did it. He would put a large round sweet in his mouth, suck vigorously for a moment, and then clenching the sweet between his teeth, he would draw back his lips, and we would see that his sweet was brown. More sucking, the lips drawn back again, and it was pink, then green, then mauve, and lastly white.

When it was quite finished he would loll against his mother while she wiped his sticky mouth, and it would begin all over again. He wriggled about all the time, he smiled at us and whispered, but of course we weren't allowed to answer, so we just stared at him and hoped he wouldn't be
discouraged.

In the evening we would gather round the piano to sing hymns. Mother sat before the keys with the baby on her lap, and waited for us to choose a hymn. We all had our favourites – mine was

“Little Children, Little
Children”, and we began with that.
“Little children, little children,
Who love their Redeemer...”
We sang at the tops of our voices – I remember how enthusiastic we used to
be, each trying to sing louder than the others ­
“They shall shine in their glory
His bright crown adorning
They shall shine in their beauty
Bright jewels for His crown”.

Whether we got the words right or wrong didn't matter in the least, it was the singing that counted with us. Over our childish voices rose our mother's, clear and sweet. I used to watch her while she sang, a smile on her lips, her dark eyes sparkling.

Gillian was serious, and when my father was making another trip to England on a short visit, she insisted that we sung “For Those in Peril On The Sea”. The tune seemed infinitely sad and mournful, and after the sprightly one of my own choice, it depressed me terribly, and I didn't want to sing any more after that. I was glad when my father landed safely in

England and for a few weeks at least, we were spared “For Those In Peril”. Jill was conscientious. I think she must have been a great comfort to my mother because she was generally to be found giving a helping hand with the sewing when it was needed.

Woolgathering 05 A fire

One incredible sight of horror we awoke to find ourselves surrounded by fire; two large blue gas plant stations, one on either side of the house was ablaze. The roaring flames were leaping a hundred feet into the air, and the crackling and crashing of falling trees was terrifying in the extreme.

In the confusion, as we were hastily flinging on our clothing, my eldest sister Greta, remembered her pet lamb, which was tethered to a post on a patch of grass in front of the house, and she dashed out to rescue it; this she did at her peril and was almost cut off by the flames as they swept through the dry grass. Though she remembered nothing of it, part of her clothing, torn and scorched, was found the following morning hanging from the top strand of the barbed wire surrounding the lambs' paddock.

Neighbours rode in from surrounding farms when they saw the glow of the fire in the night sky, and helped to fight the flames. All through the night forty men toiled to keep the fire away from the house, and the crops, which were almost ready for harvesting, and to get the frightened horses out
of the stables to a place of safety. Narrow trenches were hastily dug from the water race to bring the water to more accessible points, but it seemed an almost impossible task, and we felt that a complete “burn out” was inevitable The heat was almost unbearable, and my sisters were kept busy making tea for the thirsty men who fought the flames like demons through the long night. By dawn, all that could be done had been done. The crops, miraculously, had been saved and so had the house, though the walls were too hot to touch; the horses were safe, but some of the buildings and farm equipment had been lost.

The men sat in groups, dirty and red-eyed, many with singed hair and aching burns which were silently bound up by my sad faced mother. No-one spoke; my father sat with his head in his hands. There was no hope of saving the plantations, and they were still alight, bereft of leaves and branches, and glowing like huge red hot pokers against a back-cloth of smoke– they smouldered for days and nights, bursting into sudden flame from time to time, and dying down again quickly.
Here and there as the fires went out, a great branch-less tree stood out black against the sky, making the general state of destruction appear more complete. For days men found small dead animals that had been trapped in the fire, and once, a hen, charred and blackened, still sitting on her eggs.

It was a terrible picture of desolation, but we were lucky to be alive, and the only thing to be done was to start putting things together and in order again as soon as possible. A task my father, characteristically, threw himself into with all his energy, sparing himself neither anyone else.

One remembered incident makes me smile still. During the height of the chaos, the German music master, who was spending the night with us, was to be seen marching round and round the house, immaculately attired, even to a carefully knotted tie, and carrying a walking stick. He remained solemnly on guard all through the night, and in spite of the intense heat and danger, and then retired to bed again.

In our splendid climate, things grew quickly, and it didn't seem long before the bright new green began to cover the blackened earth, and the buildings were soon repaired or rebuilt. A fine new granary was my father's special pride, and while it still stood empty we held a grand dance there all our friends and neighbors came, and a specially warm welcome was given to those who had risked much to help fight the fire, which could so easily have ruined us. Heavy rain had fallen during the day, making the yard wet and muddy, so a long line of planks was laid from the house to the granary, and the guests had to walk the fifty yards in single file. It was a jolly party, and continued till dawn. The band was a motley affair, anyone who could play an instrument joined in. The leader and first violinist was my Uncle William, and my mother played the piano. One of the stable boys thumped happily on a home-made drum, and Andy, the head shepherd, added vocal talent.

Years later I was to be reminded of that terrible night, when in South Africa the veldt fires got out of control, and swept through the long dry grass in a roaring flood. The hot breath of the flames on my face sent my mind racing back over the years.

Woolgathering 04 - Father and Horses

My father often now talked of returning to England for good and taking us all with him – however it wouldn't be yet, and time went on. He had brought a motor car out to New Zealand from England, and they were still a sufficiently uncommon sight on the country roads to cause some excitement amongst the schoolchildren.

It was a big, unwieldy machine, with high wheels, and massive brass acetylene lamps that flared and sizzled in the most alarming way. The noisy engine frightened all the animals, and we used to try and make our ponies approach the car when the engine was running. With a great deal of coaxing and thumping with our heels, we could perhaps get them within ten or twelve yards of it, then with a frightened snort they would spin round, and gallop off with mane and tail flying. It was weeks before they got accustomed to it.

My father used to buy his horses and ponies while they were still unbroken, or breed them from his own stock, but he always broke them in himself. He loved his horses, but it was his policy to sell all his surplus stock, so many of his beautifully schooled horses had to go. He hated to part with them, and I think when it came to the point, it was the one time when he could have put business second to inclination.

One day he had a young pony on a long rope in the yard, that had never been handled until it was brought to the farm from the paddock a few days before. Six of us were sitting, silent and still, on the top rail of the fence, watching. He was the prettiest pony I have ever seen, and he fought savagely for his freedom. He reared and plunged, and lashed out viciously; he tore at the rope with his teeth, and my father fought back at the other end of the rope.

Gradually the fire began to go out of the pony and he stood still, trembling, his proud little head high, and his eyes wide and bright. My heart beat faster and my hands were damp; I felt terribly excited as I settled more firmly on the fence.

My father talked quietly to him, shortening the length of the rope between them as he did so; the pony looked quickly to left and right, backed a little, and then stood still again. Soon my father was gently rubbing his shoulder, and then his neck and head.

He placed a small saddle on the quivering pony's back, and took it off again many times, and the pony stood still. For several days this went on, and the man became the master in the end.


Then, on the sixth day, may father said without raising his voice,

“Come along one of you, and get up.”

Nobody moved.

“Did you hear me?”

The cold note of authority was there, but he never took his eyes off the pony.

“Which ever of you rides him today shall have him for her own.”

Still for a moment no-one stirred. Then Gillian slowly climbed down from the fence, and walked across to my father. He said nothing, but still holding the rope, he helped her up.

For a few moments nothing happened, then the pony seemed to go mad! He gave a shrill squeal, threw his weight on the rope, and by every conceivable means tried to dislodge the burden
from his back. But he could not. She clung tightly with hands and legs, and somehow managed to stay on, her face white. Suddenly he bucked, reared high in the air, and with a sickening thud, landed on top of Jill. By some miracle she was not killed, though her mouth was bleeding.

As soon as they were both on their feet she silently remounted, and there on his back she remained until the pony once more stood still.

We, like five magpies on the fence, were speechless and more than a little frightened. Gradually the little animal became quiet and gentle, and after a few weeks, Jill could do anything with him. She called him Otto – perhaps out of regard for her German music master – and he became her most beloved treasure.

One rainy season when my father was away from home at a sale, it became necessary for a friend's cattle to be moved across the river and my father offered to do it for him. He had done it many times before, but this time it was near the river mouth, and the current in the flood-water was running strongly.

As the cattle swam they began to turn downstream, towards the sea – his only chance of saving them was to swim his horse below them, and try to turn them against the current. This he did to his peril, shouting and lashing at the cattle with his long stock whip. The danger of his being over-run by the cattle in their fear and confusion was very great, but little by little he edged them round and landed them safely.

I well remember the first time I swam my pony across a flooded river – my father at my side, swimming with his arm across the saddle of his own horse. In my imagination I can still feel the water rising cold about my legs, and the strange thrilling sensation when the pony began to swim, his head thrust forward, and nostrils distended. I could feel the ripple of his body as he thrashed through the water. I remember too how on gaining the opposite bank he almost unseated me when he vigorously shook himself free of water!

* * * *

Woolgethering 03 A glass eye, a trip to England and a storm

Once we had a shepherd with a glass eye, who used to go down to the water race, where it flowed between the apple trees, to wash – every now and then he took out his eye and rinsed it in the water. I remember one day I crept up behind him, and sprang upon his stooping back; he was thrown off balance, and we both fell sprawling in the water – his glass eye fell from
his hand, and was smashed on a stone. He never bothered to have it replaced, and anyway, he said he could see just as well without it.

More and more memories crowded into my mind as I sat thinking of those far off days, and as I relived each one I was a child again, feeling every emotion with the utmost clarity. There was the day that John fell down the gravel pit, and I could see his small figure crumpled and motionless at the bottom, and thought he was dead. I flew round the edge to the sloping
track, crying and praying as I ran, “Oh God please don't let him be dead”, and my relief when my efforts to move him were rewarded with a howl of pain. There was the day Gillian was chased by a bull, and took refuge on the top of a huge stone heap in the middle of a paddock and there had to remain with the bull pacing about below her, until she was rescued hours later by one of the farm hands. The time Beth had her wrist broken when she was dragged by her pony. She was driven by my mother to the nearest Doctor – a matter of twenty-five miles, a pale frightened little girl, feint with pain as the trap bumped over the rough country roads. Very different, I remembered, when she returned a few days later, a little superior I thought, with her arm in a sling, and wearing a new red ribbon in her shining dark curls.

Another memory was of an early morning just as I was leaving the house, when one of the men had fallen under the disc harrows when his horse had taken fright, and was being carried in. He was horribly cut about the face and arms – I tottered into the garden and was suddenly sick.

During those first years the development of the farm went on steadily, though there were many heart-braking setbacks. Crops were sewn and harvested, and the sheep and cattle increased in number, as did the employees. The mortgage was paid off, and there was money in the bank, and help in the house for my mother, and it was about this time, when I was five, that my father decided to take a trip home to England; my mother and
the two youngest children, the baby Jane, were all chosen(?) to go with him. I was broken-hearted when I found I was to be(?) left behind with my grandparents; it was the first time I had ever stayed away from home, or been separated from the rest of the family.

The four older girls were to stay with different friends.

The months of waiting for their return seemed endless and when from time to time one of my sisters came to visit me I became homesick and miserable. Living with my grandparents were two young aunts, and an unmarried uncle – Uncle James, my idol. He was gay and handsome, a young man who should have been an artist, just as his brother William should have studied music – music that filled his heart and mind and made him forget his sheep.
Their father was a dour Scot who had no time for the Arts. The boys, he said, should be farmers, so he bought them each a farm, but they were not interested. The one played his music, and the other made his pictures, and wasted his time watching a falling blossom, or a bright bird in a sparkling pool.

Uncle James often took me on the front of his saddle when he went out, and it was he who first taught me beauty of form and colour, and of light and shade, and I spent many happy hours with him. He showed me the loveliness of a windblown tree against a darkening sky, and of a bright green lizard basking on a flat grey stone in the sun. It was he too who kept me out too long one evening when we were overtaken by a storm. The wind came sweeping across the plain in unbroken violence, tearing at our clothes and beating the breath out of our lungs.

It became impossible to stay on the horse, so we dismounted, tied the reins to the stirrup, and set him free knowing he would find his own way home. We struggled along, clinging tightly to each other, and I knew that if he let me go, I would be blown away like a leaf. Every now and again he would
hoist me up and carry me until I had recovered my breath. When we got home, and I felt we had been through a great adventure together, he was roundly scolded by my grandmother, but he laughed and made light of it – as he did on the fatal day when he cut my hair short. It seemed a good idea to us,
but it made us very unpopular with the rest of the household.

At last, after what seemed a lifetime to me, my parents were on their way home, and I was going to Littleton to meet their ship. When I got there with one of my aunts, I found my four sisters already there, and when I saw my mother and father coming down the gangplank, I was suddenly shy. I noticed John was taller and thinner, and that Jane, in my mother's arms, had a bandage over her eyes. Later I learned that she had picked up some infection in England, which in spite of several operations and left her almost blind in one eye. She spent months in semi-darkness, then had to wear tinted glasses for many months more.

As she grew older it was found that she was artistic, and in spite of her impaired sight she painted many beautiful pictures.

Quickly the threads of our old life were taken up again, except that John and I started to go to school. Our days of unrestricted play were over; gone the hours of dawdling through the leafy orchard and playing by the water race amongst the yellow buttercups, with the unforgettable smell
of musk all about us. Instead we bustled off to make the(?) mile ride to school, splashing through the water where the stream became a shallow ford across the roadway.

Pip and Dot were our ponies, and in the winter when the
water was frozen, Dot refused to walk on the ice, so Pip went before her, pawing the surface until he made a hole in which he put his hoof; more pawing, and another hole, and so on, step by step until the ford was crossed, with Dot following sedately behind, carefully walking in the holes
made for her.

Woolgatehring 01 - Introduction and herding sheep

Two long shadows came bobbing towards me over the grass for a moment and were gone again, gone across the sunlit lawn through the gate in the garden wall. The shadows of my daughters tall and fair. These two on the threshold of life, happy in the present, untroubled by the future.
As I sat beneath the old lime tree in our English garden, watching their departure, my mind slipped down the years to my own youth, to my childhood, and I began to remember little by little those early years, spent 7000 miles across the ocean on a big sheep station in New Zealand.

The struggling years, when my parents worked endlessly it seemed – the ups and downs, the bad times caused by fire, flood, bad markets and sickness, but despite all these, the steady progress made by a stern man with tremendous energy and determination, and by a woman whose courage, co-operation and loyalty were steadfast beyond belief.

I remembered I was a shy, wild rather reserved child, and my mother, always anxious for our welfare, would have wished to give us more individual attention, but the claims of the family as a whole were many. There was always much to be done and there were always babies – I was the fifth of eleven – eight girls and three boys.

In addition to the help my mother gave on the farm – she spent many hours in the saddle riding to outlying paddocks – on the occasions when no-one else was available to do it – she had her children to care for, and until things began to prosper, besides the ordinary household duties, she cooked a midday meal for the men working on the station. All this with the help of a young girl and the elder daughters.

My mother rode well, looking slim and graceful on her grey mare – she was a splendid shot too, and often, when she wanted a chicken for the morrow, she would slip into the orchard in the evening with her rifle and shoot a bird through the head as it roosted in the branches of an apple tree. Later as the number of employees increased, the men had their own cook, and their meals were prepared in the Whari – a large wooden hut which stood in the yard, with two tiers of bunks around the walls.

At one time there was a Maori cook, a dear old fellow, very brown and wrinkled, whom we all loved. When time permitted, and, I feel bound to add, when my father was safely out of the way, he would sit on an upturned bucket, telling us wonderful stories of life in the Maori Paa, (The word pā -pronounced pah refers to a Māori village, generally one from the 19th century or earlier that was fortified for defence. Ref Wikipedia) and of his own strange life in particular. Of his restless youth, his weeks hunting in the lower alps, and his fishing trips to the lakes, and once he told us of the death of his fine young son, drowned on one of these same trips.

“My son,” he said, and paused, his busy old hands still for a while, and his face stern and sad, “My son, with life so strong in him” - we were sad too, silently sharing his loss. Wishing to comfort him I put my hand on his for a moment, and he started talking again immediately.

As he spoke, he worked away with a pocket knife on pieces of wood, making little treasures for us – for me a Tiki, and for my sisters large stocky dolls, whom they called Woodeny and Puddeny. The dolls were indestructible, and grew up with us. I can’t remember what happened to them eventually, but for years they were a solid part of our lives. These, and rag dolls, made by our mother were our only toys at this time. There were elaborately conducted funerals at which they figured as the deceased, and were buried in shoe-boxes deep in the ground.
After what seemed a decent interval, they were exhumed, and thrown into the boiler on washing day; and when they were in due course fished out, they were as good as new. Their features gradually became indistinct, and then non-existent. This didn’t make the slightest difference to our affection for them.

My mother was a high spirited girl of eighteen when she married the young Englishman, who in a moment of anger and frustration, had left his home in one of Yorkshire’s loveliest dales to make his own way in the world. Refusing help from anyone, he sailed for New Zealand, arriving with only a few pounds in his pocket. Here on the wide Canterbury plains of the South Island, with the winding Rangatata River his boundary, and the snow-capped peak of Mount Cook rising sharply from the highest ridge of the Southern Alps to the East, they settled three years later, with little but their hands and their courage to help them.

At first my father worked on an adjoining sheep station, to gain experience, and earn a little money, with the fixed idea of having a place of his own soon as possible. Indeed, he was even late for his own wedding, because his stock needed his last minute attention, before he could leave for his short honeymoon. He had an incredible capacity for hard work, and would make decisions and act upon them swiftly and fearlessly. He toiled from dawn to dusk, and was impatient of delay, whatever the cause.

Everyone knew him as a man of iron who would drive a hard bargain, but even those of his neighbours who liked him least respected his judgement, however grudgingly.

As little children we were afraid of him, his sudden rages terrified us, and his word was absolute law. He gave us tasks to do which were far beyond our strength and years, but no-one amongst us ever questioned his authority. Even my mother’s spirited protests were over- ruled, and her angry tears ignored.

When I was ten and my brother not quite nine, we were sent to move a large flock of sheep from one paddock to another about two miles away. Our way led us down a steep cutting on a hillside, and there we were to leave the road and follow a rough cart track across a wide open stretch of land to another road a quarter of a mile further on. We set out on our ponies – one at the head of the flock and the other following at the rear in a stifling cloud of dust.

This would have been simple enough for a shepherd with a couple of good sheepdogs, but we had only our ponies and not much experience. All went well until we got onto the cart track, then suddenly one of the sheep broke away and ran out of the flock. Others followed. I at the front rode back to try and collect the truants, and while I was thus occupied the leaders got too far ahead. My brother and I galloped madly round and round the flock trying vainly to get them bunched up. The heat was terrific, and we were choked with dust; the ponies stumbled over the tussocky grass, and we couldn’t hear each other for the bleating of the sheep. When at last we got them under control again, we were exhausted, our faces were streaked with dirt, and our heaving ponies wet with sweat.

Yet not for one moment had we thought of giving up our task, or going for help.

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