and rum lifted their bowler hats to Aunt Effie, and the patient horses took the pipes out of their mouths and nodded respectfully. The stack of firewood towered above us.
“Aunt Effie,” said Lizzie, “why did the man say manooker instead of manuka?”
“It’s just the way some people pronounce it. Some call it red tea-tree, some manooker, and some manuka. Then there’s the big tea-tree. Some call it white tea-tree, some kanooker, and some kanuka. Some even call it white manooker. Whatever name you choose doesn’t make it any easier to lug aboard when tide’s in and your scow’s riding high above the wharf.”
Just then a man with a ladder over his shoulder galloped down the street. At the corner he leaned his horse against a tall street lamp, stood the ladder on its back, and hooked it on an arm that stuck out under the lamp itself. The horse held its breath and kept very still while he climbed up and lit the gas.
The man came down, got the ladder on his shoulder, and galloped to the next street lamp. It took him some time to find his matches, and the horse got sick of waiting and moved on to the next lamp. The man was left swinging on the ladder. “Back up!” he yelled.
“In Auckland, the street lamps aren’t so tall, so the lamplighters use bicycles,” Aunt Effie told us. More lights came on up the street. “That’s the hotels lighting up. The gold miners and kauri bushmen will be coming to town for Saturday night.”
“Tsk! Tsk! Tsk!” Daisy clicked her tongue.
“But remember the lights last night?” said Lizzie. “You said it was Saturday night in Coromandel then.”
“Every night’s Saturday night for the gold miners and kauri bushmen in Coromandel and the Thames,” said Aunt Effie. “They’ll be quiet enough for the next hundred years, once all the gold and kauri’s gone.”
Just up the road was a fish and chip shop called “Greasy Mick’s Son and Co.” where Aunt Effie ordered us a feed of mussels and vinegar, and fried flounder and chips. “About enough to fill a dinghy,” she told Greasy Mick’s son.
“Everybody should taste Thames mussels and flatties once,” Aunt Effie said. “They’re the best in the country, but they can’t last at the rate we’re eating them. They dredge the mussels and take them to Auckland by the scow-load.”
We felt guilty but gorged ourselves. Jammed full to the tonsils, we staggered along Pohlen Street, looking at the windows of the chemists’ shops which displayed tins of Edmond’s Baking Soda and Hardy’s Indigestion Remedy. One window was filled with blue bottles of castor oil, white bottles of Lane’s Emulsion, and dark-red bottles of Parrish’s Chemical Food, but we held our noses and crossed the street so we didn’t have to look at them.
Alwyn pointed at some corsets in the window of a dress shop and asked in a loud voice, “What are those?” Daisy coughed. A hardware shop had gum spears in the window, climbing irons, and thigh waders for the gumdiggers; and pans for the gold prospectors. “Eagle Foundry camp ovens just arrived from Glasgow!”said a sign. “Try our shovels and picks!”
The lower halves of the hotel windows were all painted white with holes scratched in the paint where angry wives had tried to look inside to catch their wicked husbands. That’s what Daisy told us. Aunt Effie held us up to a hole so we could see inside the public bar of the Brian Boru.
We saw miners in blue and grey Crimean shirts, a red bandanna round their necks, and some with bright sashes holding up their moleskin trousers. They wore what Aunt Effie called wideawake hats, high boots, smoked pipes, and swigged beer and rum from barrels on the bar. Some of them sang, some jigged, and some told stories. One saw us looking and flattened his nose against the inside of the window, and Lizzie flattened her nose back.
“They must be telling each other good stories,” she said, “because they laugh so much.”
There was a man in a bowler
“Aunt Effie,” said Lizzie, “why did the man say manooker instead of manuka?”
“It’s just the way some people pronounce it. Some call it red tea-tree, some manooker, and some manuka. Then there’s the big tea-tree. Some call it white tea-tree, some kanooker, and some kanuka. Some even call it white manooker. Whatever name you choose doesn’t make it any easier to lug aboard when tide’s in and your scow’s riding high above the wharf.”
Just then a man with a ladder over his shoulder galloped down the street. At the corner he leaned his horse against a tall street lamp, stood the ladder on its back, and hooked it on an arm that stuck out under the lamp itself. The horse held its breath and kept very still while he climbed up and lit the gas.
The man came down, got the ladder on his shoulder, and galloped to the next street lamp. It took him some time to find his matches, and the horse got sick of waiting and moved on to the next lamp. The man was left swinging on the ladder. “Back up!” he yelled.
“In Auckland, the street lamps aren’t so tall, so the lamplighters use bicycles,” Aunt Effie told us. More lights came on up the street. “That’s the hotels lighting up. The gold miners and kauri bushmen will be coming to town for Saturday night.”
“Tsk! Tsk! Tsk!” Daisy clicked her tongue.
“But remember the lights last night?” said Lizzie. “You said it was Saturday night in Coromandel then.”
“Every night’s Saturday night for the gold miners and kauri bushmen in Coromandel and the Thames,” said Aunt Effie. “They’ll be quiet enough for the next hundred years, once all the gold and kauri’s gone.”
Just up the road was a fish and chip shop called “Greasy Mick’s Son and Co.” where Aunt Effie ordered us a feed of mussels and vinegar, and fried flounder and chips. “About enough to fill a dinghy,” she told Greasy Mick’s son.
“Everybody should taste Thames mussels and flatties once,” Aunt Effie said. “They’re the best in the country, but they can’t last at the rate we’re eating them. They dredge the mussels and take them to Auckland by the scow-load.”
We felt guilty but gorged ourselves. Jammed full to the tonsils, we staggered along Pohlen Street, looking at the windows of the chemists’ shops which displayed tins of Edmond’s Baking Soda and Hardy’s Indigestion Remedy. One window was filled with blue bottles of castor oil, white bottles of Lane’s Emulsion, and dark-red bottles of Parrish’s Chemical Food, but we held our noses and crossed the street so we didn’t have to look at them.
Alwyn pointed at some corsets in the window of a dress shop and asked in a loud voice, “What are those?” Daisy coughed. A hardware shop had gum spears in the window, climbing irons, and thigh waders for the gumdiggers; and pans for the gold prospectors. “Eagle Foundry camp ovens just arrived from Glasgow!”said a sign. “Try our shovels and picks!”
The lower halves of the hotel windows were all painted white with holes scratched in the paint where angry wives had tried to look inside to catch their wicked husbands. That’s what Daisy told us. Aunt Effie held us up to a hole so we could see inside the public bar of the Brian Boru.
We saw miners in blue and grey Crimean shirts, a red bandanna round their necks, and some with bright sashes holding up their moleskin trousers. They wore what Aunt Effie called wideawake hats, high boots, smoked pipes, and swigged beer and rum from barrels on the bar. Some of them sang, some jigged, and some told stories. One saw us looking and flattened his nose against the inside of the window, and Lizzie flattened her nose back.
“They must be telling each other good stories,” she said, “because they laugh so much.”
There was a man in a bowler
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