Billy and Old Smoko (12 page)

“I
have another strange feeling in my funny bone,” Old Smoko said.

“What about?”

“The number of pigs coming down on to the farm. Bert Brute was an exceptional case, but we expect to see a boar or two in the back paddock at lambing time. But those weaners – up the apple tree; that broad-shouldered boar in the turnips; the savage Captain Cooker in the bull paddock; and now a barrow – in the cowshed itself!”

“It’s handy for tucker,” said Billy, “getting them close like that.”

But Old Smoko rubbed his funny bone and said, “I suspect
it has something to do with your stepmother.”

“The Ragwort Inspector sounded like my stepmother,” Billy said as they milked the cows that night. “She looked like her, too. And her horse looked rather like Mr Strap.”

“You’ve reminded me!” Old Smoko cried. “I saw Mrs Strap last week, the day Mr Strap had no hanky and was crying because he had no breakfast. Remember the real Mrs Strap had red hair? Well, she’s been replaced by a stepmother just like yours – with green eyes and long black hair. What if they’re all clones?”

“Clowns?”

“Not clowns. I take a pride in the clarity of my enunciation. I said clones!”

“What’s a clone?”

“Cloning has not been been invented yet,” Old Smoko told Billy. “When it is, a mad scientist will be able to take a few cells from one witch – what is going to be called a piece of her genetic material – and breed another twelve identical to her. That is what they are going to call cloning.”

“So you’d have thirteen witches, all exactly the same?”

Old Smoko nodded. “When I was a little horse,” he said, “I went to the flicks one Saturday night, in the old hall at Te Whaiti. It was my first time, and I sat beside a little girl called Victoria Ruruhi who ate my bag of boiled lollies and told me the actors were really standing around the back of the big white screen.

“The film was called
Frankenstein
. When the monster came to life, Victoria Ruruhi crunched another boiled lolly and whispered that he was going to jump through the screen
and eat me, so I bolted screaming all the way home up the track over Tarapounamu and down to Ruatahuna.”

“What’s that got to do with clones?”

“I am coming to that.” Old Smoko looked severely at Billy. “While helping herself to my boiled lollies, Victoria Ruruhi told me they were going to clone Frankenstein – like taking cuttings from a tree – and make thousands of copies of him.”

“That must have been pretty scary,” said Billy.

“It was indeed. After that, I ran and hid every time I saw Victoria Ruruhi.”

“No wonder! Do you think all the other stepmothers are clones of my one?”

“I suspect they are. There is the Bryce kids’ mother, and Harrietta Wilson’s, and the Ellerys’ mother, and – and – and – ”

“That only comes to eleven,” said Billy who was pretty quick at arithmetic.

“Did you include your stepmother?”

“Twelve,” said Billy. “And the cloned stepmother who calls herself Mrs Strap – she makes it thirteen.”

“Thirteen witches!” His face white, Old Smoko stared at Billy.

“Thirteen of them!” His voice trembled. “That is what is called a coven of clones.”

“First my dad invented the outboard motor, then the milking machine, and now somebody’s cloning covens.”

“Or covening clones,” said Old Smoko.

“Or coveting clowns,” Billy laughed.

“Clowning coverts.”

“Covert wagons!”

Old Smoko snorted and shook his head. “Covert wagons!” he nickered, his voice sounding normal again.

They were both still grinning as they took the cans down for the milk launch and hid the enormous barrow’s carcass, ready for roasting, in the lawsoniana shelter-belt behind the house.

“Who do you think is cloning the covens?” Billy asked.

“I suspect a mad scientist with a secret laboratory,” said Old Smoko. “Kidnapping the real mums and replacing them with clones, turning the dads lackadaisical, and sending more and more cheeky pigs to try and take over the farms and then Waharoa itself!”

“We’ll find the mad scientist,” Billy said, “and destroy the secret laboratory.” He and Old Smoko shook hands.

“Did I see you grinning at that old nag that wasn’t just telling him your spelling and times tables and what’s the idea shaking hands with a horse?” Billy’s stepmother demanded as he came in the back door.

“I was just excited that the Ragwort Inspector didn’t find a single plant in the front paddock.”

“Bah well don’t go getting too cocky the Thistle Inspector’s coming next weekend and if she finds a single thistle in the front paddock she’ll hang draw and quarter you and that bone idle nag now eat up your lovely tea you’ve still got to read us the
Herald
and tell us a bedtime story.”

Billy pretended to chew the bleached old knucklebone his stepmother threw down with a dong on his plate. A bit
of sheep dung showed the knucklebone hadn’t even been washed. He slipped it into his pocket when she was busy looking at her reflection in the mirror.

“If the Thistle Inspector’s coming,” Billy whispered to himself, “we’ll have to cut and start drying the thistles tomorrow. We should be able to burn them about Wednesday, if it doesn’t rain.”

Billy glanced up and saw his father smiling at him. He smiled back, but his stepmother saw them in the mirror and growled deep in her throat, and Billy’s dad rushed over, leaned against the hot stove, and whistled “Home On the Range” till his trousers started smoking.

Billy piggybacked his stepmother and lackadaisical dad to bed, after reading the
Herald
aloud, then told them the story of “The Goose-Girl”.

“I liked that bit where they cut off the horse’s head and hung it over the gate!” said Billy’s stepmother and went to sleep smiling at herself in the bedroom mirror. Billy looked at her reflection in the shiny lid of the milk powder tin, and noticed her tusks had grown.

Back in the kitchen, Old Smoko had the barrow cooked, and Billy agreed it was the best roast pork and crackling he had ever tasted. “You see why pig hunters make little boars into barrows?” said Old Smoko.

“I see,” said Billy, but felt his ears. “It’s not a very comfortable idea,” he said, “cutting off their ears and tails and testicles,” and he crossed his legs.

“Not at all comfortable,” said Old Smoko, “but it makes for superb eating.”

Sunday, they scythed all the thistles, raked them into windrows, and turned them with pitchforks so they dried. Billy was wearing the sticking knife, and they killed several more pigs near the cowshed.

On Wednesday afternoon, they were watching the thistles burn, when the smoke blew in their faces so they shifted. “I’m glad you suggested I carry the sticking knife,” said Billy. “Look at the chest on that boar pig pulling faces at us from the other side of the hole in the ground where we stuffed the ragwort.”

By the time they’d dealt with the deep-chested boar pig, the fire had gone out, and some thistles that hadn’t dried properly wouldn’t burn, so they stuffed them down the hole as well. There hadn’t been any time to look for the mad scientist and, going over to the shed, they had to bail and stick a huge, blubbery sow who leaned over the fence and asked Billy, “Who’s your funny-looking friend?” After singeing her, Old Smoko said, “Do you remember Bert Brute asked the same insolent question?”

“So he did! There is something funny about the way the pigs are coming down on the farm. I keep thinking of that boar in the turnip paddock, the one who sang a rude song about taking over the farm from my father.”

“Old Smoko has worked out who our wicked stepmothers are,” Billy announced to the other children as they rode home after school on Friday. “They’re clones – genetically identical copies of my wicked stepmother. We think she’s a witch in disguise. But there must be somebody who took her genetic material and made the clones, and we’re trying
to find out who it is.”

“Genetics?” Johnny Bryce shook his head. “Clones? We don’t even know anything about D.N.A. yet.”

“We are dealing here,” Billy said, “with a mad scientist!” and he thought to himself, “I sound a bit like Old Smoko.”

“A mad scientist!” everyone said.

Billy turned so he could see everyone sitting in single file along Old Smoko’s back. “A mad scientist who cloned the wicked stepmothers so they all give us worn-out puha to eat. The same mad scientist who turned all our fathers lackadaisical.”

Everyone turned pale. “The mad scientist!” whispered Peggy Turia. “My real stepmother used to say there’s an ancient Ngati Haua story about a mad scientist taking over the Waikato and filling it with witches.…”

“M
y father always reckoned no good would come from giving sheilas the vote in 1893,” said Johnny Bryce. “You wait till he hears he went lackadaisical because of a mad sheila scientist.”

“Who said the mad scientist is a sheila?” “Nobody said it's a sheila!” “Of course it must be a sheila!” “Oh, shut up!” “Shut up yourself!” “Don't you tell me to shut up, Johnny Bryce!” “No sheila's going to tell me to shut up – Ow!”

“Desist!” said Old Smoko. “Remember, all for one!”

“And one times four is all!” said the little boy from out Soldiers Settlement.

“If women got the vote in 1893, when did men get the vote?” somebody asked.

“Maggie will know. Ask Maggie,” everyone said.

“Maori jokers over twenty-one got the vote in 1867,” said Maggie Rawiri, who was remarkable for her grasp of New Zealand's electoral history. “Some European jokers already had it, but some didn't get it till twelve years later.”

“Why not?” “Is that true?” “That's racism!” “It's not fair!” “Hooray!” “Do you want a biff on the nose?” “You're asking for it, June Williams!” “You shut up!” “No, you shut up!” “I warned you!” “I'm not telling you again!”

“Taihoa,” said Old Smoko. “Why fight each other when we should be fighting the mad scientist, and getting back your real mums. And your real stepmother,” he added for Peggy.

“Who ever heard of cloning?” Johnny Bruce sneered. “Phooey! You can't make people look like each other.”

“Our stepmothers all look like each other,” said Harrietta, “and like the new Mrs Strap we saw watching Mr Strap through the hedge last week.”

“Like identical twins,” said somebody, “like the Ellerys, only thirteen of them instead of two.”

“Thirteen,” said Old Smoko. “A coven of clones.”

“Cunning clowns!” grinned Harrietta.

“Cloning!” said Johnny Bryce. “You just made it up,” he told Billy. “Like that enormous boar pig, Bert Brute, you reckoned you killed. You just made him up, too. My father says you better watch out for your imagination, in case it runs away with you.”

“How come you cut your finger on Bert Brute's tusk, if I made him up, Johnny Bryce?” asked Billy.

“All the same….” said Johnny.

“Yeah!” said somebody down the back. “All the same what?”

“When you bled, was that imaginary blood? And how about telling us how you got that imaginary scar?” Billy
pointed at Johnny's finger.

“Yeah!” said the voice down the back. “How'd you get that, eh?”

“My father'll show your father what's imaginary and what's not,” said Johnny Bryce. “Or he would do, if he hadn't gone all lackadaisical because sheilas got the vote in 1893.”

“Thinking of cloning, Johnny,” Old Smoko said over his shoulder, “what about all the M.P.s in parliament?”

“Huh! What's an M.P.?”

“Member of Parliament.”

“Huh! Everyone knows that. What about them?”

“Well,” Old Smoko said in his most reasonable voice, “M.P. is short for nincompoop which simply means Member of Parliament. Look at the word nincompoop,” he went on. “The M and the P come from its middle.”

“He's right!” said all the other kids. “It does, too!”

“Everyone knows that M.P.s sound like each other, lie like each other, and look just like each other.” Old Smoko paused. “Has it not occurred to you, Johnny, that a mad scientist might have cloned all those M.P.s from one original nincompoop?”

Johnny Bryce's face went white. “I never thought of that! Before he went lackadaisical, my dad always used to say they were a bunch of nincompoops.… But Stan Goosman's the M.P. for Waikato, and my father votes for him, so he can't be a nincompoop.”

“My dad says your dad's a nincompoop for voting for Stan Goosman,” said the voice from down the back.

“Who said that? I'll fix them!” Johnny Bryce clenched his fists till the knuckles cracked. “My Dad says they should never have given the vote to sheilas.”

“Pull your head in, Johnny Bryce!” “You shut up!” “I'll show you!” “I'll fix you!” “Take that!” “Ugh!” “Try this for size!” “Ugh!” “See my finger, see my thumb? See my fist? Well, here it comes!” “Ugh!”

Old Smoko stopped suddenly, and everyone fell off. “Any more fighting,” he told them, “and you can all walk home. And that will be the end of the roast pork sandwiches. See how you like living forever on old puha and bleached knucklebones with bits of sheep muck like currants sticking to them.”

“Shut up, you kids,” said Maggie Rawiri.

“Yeah, youse kids, you shut your mouths,” said Johnny Bryce, “or I'll shut them for youse. Old Smoko's right: somebody cloned all them nincompoops in parliament. So somebody must've cloned our stepmothers.”

“It was all your fault, Jo–”

“Silence, Maggie! And Johnny, you stop holding your nose at her. Here are the clues,” said Old Smoko. “With all your wicked stepmothers and the new Mrs Strap, there are thirteen of them. We think a mad scientist cloned them in a laboratory somewhere under the Kaimais. What else does anyone know?”

“Our stepmother can't stand the smell of oil of wintergreen!” said one of the Ellery twins.

“Nor can ours!” said everyone.

“When my real mum comes back,” Tama Rawiri said,
“she'll give them cunning clowns something to think about. The Octopus Clamp! Our real mum gets us down and puts it on us when she reckons we're being too smart for our own good, and we give in straight away. Even Dad's scared of the Octopus Clamp!”

“The Octopus Clamp!” said everyone.

“Look for clues this weekend but, if your wicked stepmother is watching you,” Old Smoko said, “take care not to even think about the mad scientist cloning covens, nor about oil of wintergreen.”

“Why not?”

“Yeah, why not?” asked Johnny Bryce.

“Because we fear that the wicked stepmothers can tell what we are thinking about, just by looking at us with their green eyes.”

“My stepmother's suspicious,” Billy said. “She watches through a telescope to see if I'm talking to Old Smoko.”

“Huh!” said Johnny Bryce. “Who ever heard of a horse talking?”

“Right, as usual, Johnny,” said Old Smoko. “Who ever heard of a horse talking?”

“Not me!” said somebody down the back.

“Tonight, when you get home,” Billy told everyone, “remember to keep your minds clear of ideas while your wicked stepmother is watching. Empty your heads of everything.”

“How do you empty your head?” asked Phil Ellery.

Harrietta spluttered.

“I'll show you, Harrietta Wilson!” “Show me what, you
great galoot?” “I'll fix you!” “Fix me what?” “You watch out!” “Watch out for what?” “You keep out of this.” “Keep out of what?” “None of your business – you're asking for it – anyway, you're just a sheila! Ow!”

“How did you like that, nincompoop?” asked Harrietta.

“You are behaving no better than the wicked stepmothers,” said Old Smoko. “Remember, one for all…”

“One for all!” everybody said.

“And four alls are one!” cried the little boy from out Soldiers Settlement.

“Maybe the Rawleighs Man is the mad scientist,” said Johnny Bryce.

“Then how come he sells oil of wintergreen?” asked Ivan Warawara.

“If our wicked stepmothers hate oil of wintergreen that much,” said Harrietta Wilson, “what say we give them a dose of it in their tea? We could all do it at the same time one morning.”

“What say we drench them, like the sheep!” said Peggy.

Billy and Old Smoko looked at each other.

“Huh!” said Johnny Bryce. “My stepmother smelt the empty bottle my father used to keep over in the cowshed, and made him bury it. And he had to wash his hands in sheep dip before he was allowed back into the house. She's not going to go drinking it in her tea.”

“Yeah,” said the little boy from out Soldiers Settlement. “I just said hello to the Rawleighs Man, and my stepmother sniffed me and said I'd been rolling in oil of wintergreen and made me sleep under the hedge with the dogs.”

“Think about it this weekend,” said Old Smoko. “How can we give a dose of oil of wintergreen to the wicked stepmothers without them smelling it?”

As they got off, those with school bags stuck their sandwiches in them, and those without school bags stuffed the sandwiches down the front of their shirts till they could eat them under the blankets that night.

“Don't eat them all at once!” Old Smoko reminded them. “Remember they've got to last till Sunday.”

“Hooray!”

As Billy and Old Smoko rode down the bank into the Waihou River, they smelled oil of wintergreen, and somebody called, “Yo!” from under one of the big willow trees. They rode over, and there was the Rawleighs Man in his buggy.

“Every time I try to cross, a wind blows my buggy backwards, and the river floods and scares my horse,” he said.

“It's your liniment,” said Billy. “My stepmother hates the smell of oil of wintergreen.”

“Funny…” said the Rawleighs Man. “I used to sell a lot out here. Now, nobody seems to want it.”