The teen years were also interesting for our family, as with most other families, we went through our fashions and fads.
My oldest Sister May was in her last year of high school, and to Dad’s delight, had embraced his Scottish heritage and taken up the Highland Fling. Sounds dangerous I tell younger brother Stuart. He agreed. To those less educated, and not accustomed to the fine art of flinging highland people, the idea was to apparel oneself in a tartan dress, called a kilt, with a funny hat and fling yourself around every inch of the house while knocking as much furniture over as possible. Why don’t they call it the Highland twirl Stuart inquired; good point? To make matters worse, this was judiciously performed to the recorded sound of some poor bugga's cat being slowly squashed by a short fat lady somewhere, preferably Scottish. They called this musical instrument Bagpipes; I begged to differ. To make things more interesting, May eventually advanced to Scottish Sword Dancing. Dad was now ecstatic! It’s the Haka of Scottish dancing, he explained proudly. My Dad only knew three Maori words, Haka and All Black. In spite of that, he was a very proud New Zealander.
Now, for those of you who don’t know what the Haka is - let me elaborate. The Haka is a traditional Maori war dance that is designed to scare the pants off everyone, sometimes including the performers. While Scottish Sword Dancing doesn’t have the same mass visual effect, it was originally intended to intimidate any opposing tribes with the performer’s strength, stamina and agility by jumping over two or more very sharp swords assembled at the dancer's feet, in the form of a cross. This posed obvious problems when the performer’s strength, stamina and agility weren’t quite up to scratch. Subsequently, there are a lot of Scottish performers called stumpy, shorty and hoppy amongst the ranks of the less proficient proponents of this particular dance. The remaining members of our family, minus Dad and May, were rightfully concerned about this sword dancing craze, it was dangerous. May was not interested in boys; she was usually too dizzy from all that flinging and twirling, and now, jumping.
However, June didn’t do the Highland Fling, or sword dancing for that matter because she discovered the opposite sex, otherwise known as boys. Damn boys calling and phoning, parking their noisy cars out the front complained Dad, like blasted tomcats, he would continue to growl. Dad, therefore, decreed, that for safety reasons, June would be grounded and must remain on the property until she was 44.
June was not happy.
Dad also decided to swap her bedroom with theirs. June and May commanded the best bedroom at the front of the house, on the street, but would now trade for Dad and Mum’s bedroom at the back of the house. “Just in case”– Dad said. Dad was young once - apparently. Mum disagreed. A reluctant June, with a twirling May following, moved their stuff from the front bedroom to the back bedroom.
Stuart and I swapped beds. We felt cheated, but that’s about as good as it got.
Dad's suspicions were vindicated late one night when an urgent knock on the window woke him from his tender slumber. It got louder and louder until Dad finally jumped out of bed, pulled the curtains back and peered into the dark night through the cold frosted window.
A set of youthful eyeballs greeted an irritated Dad at the window. Time stood still for a second or two while each set of eyes processed the immediate situation.
Quickly the offending eyeballs changed from a silky, playful greeting, to the terrifying realisation that the likely target of tonight’s clandestine meeting was not in fact June. They grew strangely larger for a millisecond, then disappeared from sight faster than a sausage roll at a school cafeteria.
Dad, not letting this opportunity slip away, and wanting to teach these horny lads a lesson, flung the window open, snatched his trusty antique Martini-Henry rifle and launched himself into the dark, cold night. Mum was up and did what all good Mum’s do, headed to the kitchen and made a large pot of tea, peering intently into the night through the kitchen window.
After about 20 minutes or so, a bedraggled Dad arrived at the back door, clutching a car side mirror. Mum let him in and shoved a nice hot cuppa in the other hand.
Dad was not happy
Mum was curious about the addition of the car mirror, and the apparent disappearance of Dad’s favourite rabbit rifle. It seemed that Dad almost caught up with the offending youth, despite losing his pyjama pants halfway down the driveway. That lapse in concentration was just enough time for the terrified escapee to jump into a getaway car waiting at the end of the street. But Dad was a World War II veteran and not to be messed with. Regaining his composure, he valiantly lunged at the accelerating vehicle, managing to grasp the passenger’s side mirror and hung on for dear life. Dad felt he was making some progress until the passenger’s window retracted, and a hot bag of chips persuaded him to abandon ship. Once he recovered his senses and picked himself up, he discovered, by some great form of luck, or otherwise, that he was still holding on to the side mirror, however, his prize rabbit shooting rifle had disappeared, lost along the way. Summing up the situation, Dad quickly, and discreetly returned through the darkness to Bogan Place, prudently covering himself with the cold chrome mirror. He relocated his winter pyjama pants still lying in the driveway and reluctantly returned to a concerned Mum waiting at the back door.
Mum persuaded a furious Dad not to wake June until the next day when he confronted her with the offending object.
Dad was not happy
The Martini-Henry was located in the gutter half a block away early the next morning by Mum on a scouting trip on her bike and duly returned to its rightful place under the window. The offending mirror was ceremonially attached to the front gate as a warning to any other exuberant youth. It was joined by several other pieces of paraphernalia and apparel by the time June grew up and left home.
Brother Stuart had discovered something loud and obnoxious, the drums, as the whole neighbourhood had painfully found. They’re musical he reckoned. I begged to differ. He wanted to join a Rock & Roll band and travel the world. I wished he would too. One small bedroom, two small beds and one large set of drums called Pearl, in the last remaining spot - bloody marvellous! Stuart belted out an unrecognisable version of Let There Be Drums each night after school to the annoyance of everyone within two square blocks. Fortunately, Mr Gilmore next door could take his hearing aids out when he got home each night, so that solved that one. All right for him. That just left about 199 other people who had perfectly good hearing - up until then anyway. Muffle the drums, Stuart reported. I was listening. Stuart read in a magazine somewhere that the latest fad was to muffle the bass drum. This entailed placing a towel or such, inside the drum to change the pitch and tone of the drum. “Not quite so sharp, sounds better,” Stuart said. This got me thinking, so with the intention to assist drum owners all over the world, and particularly our house, I filled the offending drum with various pieces of clothing including three pairs of Stuart’s shoes, one boot and two boxes of jumping-jack firecrackers and the cat's litter box. “Sounds a treat,” Stuart reported. I moved my bed a little closer to the door.
The drum fad was briefly interrupted by the purchase of a vehicle for Stuart to drive to work. He had started work recently at the local newspaper as a lowly apprentice and resented his pushbike being sabotaged continuously by some of the more experienced lowly apprentices. Bicycles were often relocated, in the name of fun, to inaccessible places around, or on top of the building. While this brought great pleasure to a certain few, it became a source of annoyance to the remaining youthful workforce. “I’d like them to get my new car up the flagpole,” Stuart boldly asserted. I wasn't so sure.
The new addition was a small faded green Morris Minor convertible. It also had four new-ish tyres. Dad had purchased it from a middle-aged man on behalf of his elderly mother who had apparently just retired to an aged care facility, and who was reluctant to see it go, the car I assumed. He explained the large white 99 painted on the side doors was at the request of his dear old mother who was proud of her age.
Any visitors to our house would be ushered to a special viewing and have their attention particularly drawn to the leather seats. “Got an engine as well,” Stuart reported proudly, cleverly showing his progression from a non-powered vehicle to a powered vehicle. It became more evident over the next few weeks of wet miserable Christchurch weather why the small, green convertible was obtained at such a bargain price.
“It's got no roof!” Stuart moaned as the morning rain pelted down.
It seemed that a canvas convertible roof didn’t actually come with the vehicle and that such an addition was incredibly expensive to buy, if one, in fact, could be located at all. So, with mixed feelings, Stuart was forced to wear his full wet weather bicycling gear, including my motorcycle goggles for those awful rainy days.
Stuart found driving his new car around attracted lots of attention, people often waved. “They love my car,” Stuart would regularly report with pride when he got home. One particular gentleman asked if the car was still being raced, but Stuart said they must have it mixed up with someone else’s car.
I liked motorcycles. The interest in bikes ran from Dad’s side of the family. I was usually out in Dad’s shed tinkering with anything that had a motor and two wheels. I loved the sound of a motorcycle, plus the accompanying smoke and petrol smell that ensued. Dad bought me a motorbike for my first job as a lowly apprentice.
I was not impressed.
“It will get you to work Archie,” Dad pleaded purposefully.
“It’s a pathetic little dirty two-stroke excuse for a motorcycle that no self-respecting 16-year-old would be seen dead on, particularly in public,” I whined.
“It’s either that or the bus,” Dad explained, rubbing his rapidly ageing forehead firmly. This is your first full-time job, and you need to get to work, it’s as simple as that.
“I’m not using a bus,” I explained to Dad.
“Bus or bike,” Dad said as he put his hands in his pockets, tapped his foot and waited for my decision. I accepted the bike option under great sufferance with the proviso that no one, either family or friend knew about this ridiculous excuse for a motorcycle. The deal was struck. Therefore, it was with great secrecy that the James 125 cc two-stroke bike arrived up our driveway one dark night, on the back of Dad’s trailer. The shed door was opened, and the bike was discreetly wheeled in. Dad had cleaned up a spot in the corner next to the boat engine and behind the pile of used tyres where a large, dirty tarpaulin waited to cover up my new motorised form of transportation.
So, early each morning, I put on Dad’s old oilskin jacket. It was the heaviest, most weatherproof jacket ever made and distributed to those poor unfortunate bastards who had to deliver telegrams for the New Zealand Postal service, particularly during winter. I had some old pilot’s goggles that I picked up at the War surplus store in town, along with a pair of heavy woollen mittens, plus an old hat. I felt warm, but looked ridiculous.
Before the sun arrived each morning, I stealthfully opened the garage door, followed the smell of two-stroke fuel to the back of shed between the boat engine and behind the pile of used tyres in the corner. I dragged the dirty old tarpaulin off the bike, then pushed it reluctantly outside.
The next trick was to start the bike; now this was a real challenge because it didn’t like to be started. Personally, I’m not surprised; I wouldn’t either if I looked like that. I went through the morning ritual, shook the bike from one side to another to see if there was any fuel in the tank, bugga, there was. Next step, check to see if the fuel tap was turned on, yes, on. Next step, as quietly as humanly possible, start the machine by jumping on the foot kick-start, again, and again, and again. Next step, try pushing the bike down our driveway and see if it would push-start.
Finally, it would burst into action with a screaming fit, yangadanga, yangadanga, yangadanga, yangadanga. Bugga, blasted racket and blue smoke everywhere, couldn’t see a damn thing. Quickly I was off and around the corner before you can say old Ma Hickey. Plumes of thick blue smoke followed me like the Orient Express. Old Mr Smith, our neighbour across the road, would often give me a friendly wave on his early morning walk. Bastard! Work was across the other side of town and I would zigzag through as many side streets as possible to avoid traffic or the remote possibility of running into anyone I knew.
I parked my bike half a mile from work and walked the last bit. My fellow workers must have thought I was a little strange turning up with an old oversized leather jacket and World War 1 leather pilot’s headgear. It didn’t matter, I was an apprentice, they were all strange. Better that than having to explain the grubby uncool two-stroke motorcycle.
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