How Jared Blew Up, Why Aunt Effie Fired Her Cannon, How My Little Mother Grew Down as I Grew Up, and Why the School Inspector Lassoed Euphemia and Shouted, “Gotcha!”
We didn’t want to wake Aunt Effie by making a noise under her window, so played a quiet game of hopscotch. But the little ones said the big ones wouldn’t let them have a turn. Then we played marbles, but Daisy said Alwyn was cheating.
“I were not!”
“Your bad grammar shows your guilt!”
“I was not!”
“You were so.”
“So were you!” said Alwyn so Daisy coughed.
“Shhh! We’ll play kingaseeny.” Marie glanced up at the window. “Daisy can go ‘he’ and we’ll see who’s right.”
Straight off, Daisy caught Alwyn and held him down while she smacked him three times on the head – hard. “Kingaseeny, kingaseeny, one, two three!” she chanted. “So there!”
“You’re supposed to pat, not wallop!” Alwyn rubbed his head.
“The Maori kids at school don’t like kingaseeny,” said Jessie. “They don’t like being patted on the head.”
“It’s rude to touch Maoris’ heads,” Marie told us.
“But we’re Maori,” said Jessie.
“Only a bit,” Alwyn told her. “You’re mostly Scowegian!”
“What about me?” asked Lizzie, as Jessie bawled noisily.
“You’re Eskimo.”
“I’m not Eskimo. I’m a Polar Bear!”
“You’re a Red Indian!”
“I’m a Redskin!”
“No, me!”
“What am I?” “What am I?” “What am I?”
“We’ve all got a bit of Scotch and a bit of Maori and a bit of Irish and a bit of Pom,” said Marie. “And a bit of Chinese. Aunt Effie said so. ‘And heaven knows what else!’ Remember, she said we’re a bunch of mongrels?”
“Which one am I?”
“I’m a Chink!”
“You’re not allowed to say Chink. You’ve got to say Chinaman. Mr Jones said.”
Alwyn sang with gestures:
“Chink! Chink! Chinaman! Feeling velly bad.
Chop! Chop! Head off! Velly, velly sad.”
“Oooh! I’m going to tell Mr Jones! He said we’re not allowed to sing that song,” Daisy told him. “How would you like it if you were Joe Nugget, and somebody sang it?”
“Joe taught it to me!” said Alwyn who sat with Joe Nugget.
Over the shouting, Marie said, “We’re all a mixture.”
“You make us sound like a chocolate assortment,” said Daisy. She went and sat on the steps on her own.
“I’m a strawberry chocolate!” said Lizzie.
“I’m a boiled lolly!” yelled Jessie.”
“Look at me!” Casey screamed. “I’m a liquorice all-sort!”
And Jared bellowed, “I’m a bull’s eye!”
We got noisier. We played Cowboys and Indians, and we played Cops and Robbers, and punched each other, but Ann punched Jazz back a beaut and said, “That’ll teach you!”
Then we got the little ones on our shoulders for cockfighting. Jessie fell off Alwyn and cried, Lizzie fell off Jazz and cried, and Jared fell off Isaac and got winded.
“His face is going blue!” said Alwyn.
“Is he dying?
“It looks like it.”
“Jared’s dying! Alwyn said so!” The little ones cried noisily.
We all shouted and yelled and pushed each other. “It’s your fault!”
“It’s yours!”
“You done it!”
Peter shoved us aside, sat Jared up, and bent him in the middle. He sucked in air and made a harsh noise like a cockerel learning to crow.
“You’ve spoiled it,” Alwyn told Peter. “All the blue’s gone.” As we shouted and struggled to see Jared’s blue face turn white again, there was a huge boom.
“Jared’s blown up!” shouted Alwyn. There was a terrible silence.
Bits of burning wad drifted down on our heads. Aunt Effie had got sick of our noise and fired the cannon she kept in her bedroom.
“Come away from under her window,” Marie hissed.
“It was just a blank charge,” said Daisy. “I’m sure Aunt Effie would never fire a real shot at us.”
“Do you call that a blank?” asked Jazz. Down in the bull paddock, one of our footy posts snapped and fell over. The cannon-ball ricocheted towards the bluegums. The bulls galloped with their tails up.
“Daisy-Mabel-Johnny-Flossie-Lynda-Stan-Howard-Marge-Stuart-Peter-Marie-Colleen-Alwyn-Bryce-Jack-Ann-Jazz-Beck-Jane-Isaac-David-Victor-Casey-Lizzie-Jared-Jessie!”
We tore inside and up the stairs into the lovely reek of gunpowder smoke.
“Do you want to hear some more of this story or not? Well, if you do, you’d better make me a cup of tea. And I’d like a pikelet with strawberry jam. And don’t be mean with the condensed milk!”
We made the tea and pikelets, and we weren’t mean with the condensed milk. We’d just got ourselves comfortable on the foot of her enormous bed when the dogs bounded up, shoved us aside, took back their pillows and pulled the eiderdown off our feet.
“Now where was I?”
“The little girl with golden ringlets in your mother’s bed, she said, ‘My name is …’” Lizzie’s voice petered out.
“She was going to start school that morning,” said Jessie. “Can we have a look at the treasure while we listen?”
Aunt Effie snarled at Jessie, and went on with her story.
“I RAN DOWNSTAIRS. Mrs Grizzle was stirring a spoonful of gunpowder into her tea. She said, ‘It doesn’t taste the same without it.’
“‘There’s a little girl in my mother’s bed! She says her name’s Euphemia and she’s starting school today.’
“Mrs Grizzle tipped her tea into her saucer. She blew on it and sucked it up: ‘Slurrrp! The gunpowder makes all the difference!’
“‘Where’s my mother?’ I asked.
“‘Last night,’ said Mrs Grizzle, ‘while you were growing up, your mother was growing down.’
“I glanced at my feet – and felt dizzy. My old dungarees that I always wore for milking split with a crack! Mrs Grizzle tossed me some clothes. The trousers had gold stripes down the side. The jacket had medals.
“‘This is my father’s uniform,’ I said. ‘I recognise his medals.’
“‘He doesn’t need them where he is,’ Mrs Grizzle laughed. ‘Dress yourself, and then you can get your mother up.’
“The little girl who called herself Euphemia lay singing ‘Hickory-dickory-dock’, to my old teddy bear. She sat up and said, ‘Finish the song you were singing me last night. About a rock-a-bye baby.’
“‘There isn’t time. Not if we’re going to get you to school by nine o’clock.’
“Over the back of little Euphemia’s chair was a freshly-pressed navy-blue gym frock with a sash, black stockings, a white blouse, black bloomers with elastic in the legs, a school tie, and a Panama hat with a band which said ‘Who Does His’ on the front, and ‘Best Does Well!’ on the back.
“My little mother put on her gym first. I had to take it off again to put on her bloomers, singlet, and blouse. As she lifted her arms for me to pull the gym over her head, I saw my hands were twice as big as hers.
“‘There,’ I told her, ‘you look like a real, big, grown-up schoolgirl!’
“Euphemia stood in front of the mirror and put on her Panama with ‘Who Does His Best Does Well!’ around the band. She looked at herself with the hat on, and she looked at herself with the hat off. I had to brush her golden ringlets again so they hung evenly. Her big blue eyes smiled adoringly into themselves.
“‘You can blink your eyes. Mrs Grizzle says the gunpowder’s gone.’
“‘Who’s Mrs Grizzle?’
“‘Hurry up!’ a gruff voice roared downstairs.
“Euphemia was scared but exceptionally vain. She pinched her cheeks, bit her lips to make them red, and swung down the banisters, one step at a time, her finger in her mouth. She pointed her foot and drew a circle with the toe of one new button shoe.
“‘You look like a real, big, grown-up schoolgirl!’ said Mrs Grizzle.
“Euphemia smiled, climbed into her high chair, and waved a spoonful of porridge. ‘Yummy!’ she said. ‘Through the teeth and past the gums … Look out stomach, here it comes!’”
“‘Do you want me to feed you?’ I asked.
“‘I’m a big girl. I can feed myself.’
“‘Still, you don’t want to drop porridge on your new gym.’ I tucked a tea-towel around her neck.
“Down at the shed, the cows had milked themselves, the pigs had had done the separating and fed the skim dick to themselves, and Bonny had sledged the cream down to the gate.
“Euphemia put her school bag over her shoulder. I put her Panama on her head, and she took it off, put it on again, and arranged her golden ringlets in the mirror. We sailed across the Great Waharoa Swamp, mounted, and Mrs Grizzle led the pack-horses.
“As we rode past Mr Weeks’s bush, the School Inspector galloped from behind the sawdust heap, lassoed Euphemia, threw her over his saddle, and galloped towards the Hopuruahine school. “Gotcha!” he shouted. “Gotcha!”
“Dear little thing!” Daisy cried. “I’d like to be lassoed by the School Inspector.”
Aunt Effie looked at Daisy, nodded to herself, and went on with the story.
“MY LITTLE MOTHER’S Panama hat blew behind on its elastic band. She was already too far away for me to read ‘Who Does His Best Does Well!’
“‘Be brave, Brunnhilde,’ said Mrs Grizzle. ‘She’s going to love school.’
“But I couldn’t help having a little cry. ‘She is my mother,’ I wept, ‘even if she does call herself Euphemia….’”