As the Earth Turns Silver by Alison Wong Page A

was malodorous and what about purlieus . . . the purlieus of Haining Street ? – but he understood what was important. This was the world. The world of his father.
    As Robbie chewed blades of grass and shared pages of Truth with Wally, he remembered his father at the Basin bowling a Chinaman, hitting a six as well as he could down a whisky. Sometimes on the longest days of summer they’d come down to watch the clubs practise or to have a few hits, or of a Saturday afternoon sit on the grassy slopes, his father smoking cigarettes, Robbie eating blackballs and peppermint rock, watching Wellington play Canterbury or Otago, and once even New Zealand play Australia.
    Wally couldn’t bowl (or bat) if his life depended on it, and even reading Truth made him bored. After a while Robbie put the paper down. ‘Want some chuddy?’ he asked.
    They picked themselves up and ran along the winding paths, past the picket fences and wooden turnstiles, past Mr Strong’s white horse – the one that pulled the giant roller on the grounds – and out the gate to the street.
    In Fitchett’s grocery Wally bought a packet of gum for a ha’penny and a small wooden box of sherbet. In the sherbet, wrapped in tissue, he found a tiny gadget made of tin. He reached into his pocket, pulled out his whistle and fitted it to his find. Then blew it. It sounded bonzer.
    Mrs Fitchett frowned.
    Robbie bought some bull’s eyes and a lucky bag, rummaged through it hoping for a threepenny bit. Nothing but boiled lollies. He gave Wally a couple of bull’s eyes; Wally gave Robbie some sherbet and a strip of chuddy.
    They wandered across the grounds of the barracks, round the huge brick walls, into Buckle Street and down Taranaki. Past Haining Street, Frederick, Ingestre and Jessie. The purlieus of . . . Robbie did not turn his head. He crunched on a lolly and looked straight down Taranaki, at the butcher boys racing their horses, at the trams rolling along the tracks, the trammies swinging along the outer footboards, at the hawkers and fishmongers and men in straw boaters.
    Along the waterfront they passed queues of horses and carts, men whistling, shouting, loading wooden boxes, barrels, earthenware jars. They found a spot on the jetty and sat down, the taste of sugar, mint, salty air in their mouths, their legs hanging out over the water. A cool breeze swept the smell of fish into their faces; gulls hung in the sky, shifted then fell, swooping over the boats. A steamer of West Coast coal was being unloaded. They watched the huge cane baskets being winched into the hold, then back up full of coal, the black-dusted men trundling them down the gangways, tipping them into the carts, then trundling them back up again, a haze of coal dust floating in the air.
    Robbie took a stick of gum from his pocket, put it in his mouth. ‘What’s purlieus ?’ he asked, his voice barely audible above the gulls. ‘ The purlieus of Haining Street.’
    Wally smiled. ‘Why don’t we go and take a look. You ever been down there? The opium’s so strong you can cut the air with a knife. It makes your skin creep, all them Chows – but you have bonzer dreams.’
    Robbie stopped chewing. ‘Dad said if you ever went down Haining Street you got kidnapped and boiled in a copper and made into preserved ginger.’
    Wally laughed. ‘You’re scared, aren’t you? C’mon, I dare you.’ He looked across at Robbie out of the corner of his eye. Smiled. ‘I’ll go too – make sure you do it.’
    They walked back along the waterfront, up Taranaki, past the greengroceries, laundries and pawn shops, past Ghuznee, Ingestre and Frederick. Then stood on the corner, looking down the narrow, dusty street. On each side there were small wooden houses, some two-storey, some only one, some with wooden fences, some without. ‘Filthy cesspits,’ Robbie’s father had said,