The Haystack Read Free

dropped the steel so it swung with a little clash from the chain on the other side of his belt.
    “A leg of wether?” I leaned against Dad and waited.“Whether the weather for wether.” Mr Cleaver always said that. He opened the thick wooden door on the chiller and dumped a side of mutton on the huge chopping block, thud! The dead meat didn’t look as if it had ever been a sheep.
    Bang! The bone chopped through. Slice! Bang! The knuckle. Slice-slice! A couple of gristly old chunks of fat chucked into the basket under the scales: whack!
    Rip off a length of brown paper. Weigh chops, leg, grab the pencil from behind his ear and write on the paper. Add up and tell Dad. Stick the pencil back. Wrap the meat. Neat, quick.
    “You hear the news?”
    Dad shook his head as Mr Cleaver tied the brown string around the parcel, spun the parcel, took the string around the other way, and knotted it.
    “Old Peter Rust got on it again. The hard stuff. Knocked over his candle, or went to sleep with his pipe going. The Hoe boys saved his bacon, dragged him out, mattress smouldering. No damage to the whare, but he’d have bought it if they hadn’t smelled smoke over at the house. He went too far this time.
    “I don’t know how often Alec Hoe’s let him off before. Well, you know about it. Anyway, this was once too often, and he gave Old Peter Rust the sack.”
    “But he’s worked there since away back, well before the War…”
    “What could Alec Hoe do? They won’t have a drop in the house themselves. It’s not as if he hadn’t had warning after warning. And with butterfat the way it is, the two boys working on the place now, and their sister still at home…it’s a lot for the farm to support.
    “Another man on the swag, and not likely to pick up a job in a hurry, not at his age and with things the way they are.” Mr Cleaver held the parcel of meat. “A returned man, too. He lied about his age when he joined up, or the army would have said he was too old. Must be well into his sixties now.”
    “Too old to be sleeping under haystacks, and winter coming on. I wish I’d known,” Dad said.
    “One of Stan Goosman’s drivers saw him heading up the stock road to Matamata and gave him a lift to Te Poi.”
    Dad shook his head. “He could be anywhere now. This Depression, it’s hurting people, and all the government can think of doing is to cut wages and put more and more of them out of jobs.”
    I made tracks with my toes through the sawdust on the floor, but kept one eye on Mr Cleaver in case he tried to cut off my ear and make it into sausages.
    He was that quick: he’d cut through the string, handed the parcel to Dad, and run his knife up and down the steel a couple of times. Shang! Shang! He let go the steel on its chain, and—without looking—dropped theknife back into the leather box on his other side.
    “Mr Bryce snaps the string with his finger.”
    “Mr Bryce hasn’t got a sharp knife.” Mr Cleaver counted the change into my hand. “Six bob…” He gave me a half-crown. “Eight and six…” He added another shilling. “Nine and six…and another sixpence. There you are, Tea-tree Toes, ten bob!” I gave it to Dad.
    “Back at school, eh?” Mr Cleaver winked over his big red sausage nose. “I hope Mr Strap’s keeping you busy.”
    I grinned. I knew he was friendly, even if he did look at my ear.
    “Something to keep the wolf from the door.”
    I felt my grin turn into a smile, and bit the thick slice of luncheon sausage.
    “What do you say?”
    “Thank you, Mr Cleaver.” I tried to wink, but both eyes shut, and somebody else was coming in. Dad and Mr Cleaver looked at each other.
    “Let’s know if you hear anything,” Dad said, then we were walking along for the mail.
    Mr Gilbert was out the front of the garage, pumping benzine up into the two big glass bottles on top of the bowser. They filled, and he let the benzine run down the hose and into a drum on the back of a lorry. While Dad spoke to