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.