Annual Magazine of the Students' Association

Auckland University College, New Zealand

Editor: Maurice Duggan

Assistant Editors: John Ellis and Tom Wells

Business Manager: A. P. Postlewaite, o. B. E., A. P. A. N. Z.

Advertising Manager: Dorothy Wilshere

Circulation Manager: Elza Charles PUBLISHED BY THE AUCKLAND UNIVERSITY COLLEGE STUDENTS* ASSOCIATION

PRINTED BY THE PELORUS PRESS, 2A SEVERN STREET, AUCKLAND, C.3 TABLE OF CONTENTS

On Government Departments that invent Inspiring Slogans Denis Glover 4

Note on Ecology 5

Grasping the Nettle A. R. D. Fairburn 7 The Outcast David Ballantyne 14

The Forty-hour Week S.M. 22

The Small House Bill Wilson 27

Four Poems by J. K. Baxter 23

Return John Reece Cole 34

Four Poems by Kendrick Smithyman 42

Front Seat ]. B. Raphael 45

Look Thy Last on All Things Lovely Every Hour S.M. 49

Four Poems by Lily H. Trowern 50

Listen to the Mocking Bird N.H. 54

Vox mea ad Dominum Peter Cape 59

Three Poems by A. R. D. Fairburn 60

Luscious Dahlias W. O. Droescher 61

A University Primer Tom Wells 63

Love of Two Hands Keith Sinclair 69

Four Poems by Denis Glover 70

Two Stories about a Friend G. R. Gilbert 71

Song of the Dry Orange Tree Lorca (trs. Texidor) 75 Sunbrown Maurice Duggan 76

Episode : The School John Ellis 81 Tangi John Kelly 91

Notes on Contributors 96 On Govt. Departments That Invent Inspiriting Slogans

Confronted by the bush on every side The moa gave its country up and died; 1 he Kiwi stretched its stunted wings in vain, But took no flight and sank to earth again. Here's heavy sadness only. Like a pall Rain and security descend on all.

Onward New Zealand! Kiwi, essay to soar! Be clothed you moa bones! Don't be a bore! Well made, New Zealand! Let's call this moral tale 'The whitebait with the ambition of a whale.' denis glover TV l\

annual magazine of the auckland university college

students' association: volume xliii: November 1948

NOTE ON ECOLOGY

UNIVERSITY JOURNAL may be anything from a house- magazine to a serious review of literature, philosophy, art and poli- tics. The new editorial policy of Kiwi is directed away from nar- rowly domestic affairs (with which its sister journal Craccum is quite able to cope) toward matters of more general interest. If this policy needs any justification, it must be made very largely on what, for want of a better term, we may call ecological grounds. The University has its own tradition, and its own functions (which must not be allowed to become diluted or obscured—no, not even to serve the gos' d of Urn- versal Popular Education). The parts, process, institutions and functions of society are not potatoes in a bag. They are related 'in unity and in diversity.' Since it exists in society, the University must establish a meaningful context. How can a University journal best help in the realisation of this end? First let us glance at certain further ends. We gather experience into ourselves that we may enlarge our sympathy and our knowledge, that we may the better control life in real (not necessarily realist) terms. The imaginative rearrangement of our experience of life provides verisimilitude, not a facsimile. Our formulation of that imaginative statement depends, in turn, on experience. The two things interact. We have at all times to deal, not only with the work of art (or other human construct), but also with the experience that we bring to it. This is true whether we are considering Shakespeare or, say, Roderick Finlayson. The University, because of its highly specialised functions, suffers always from a tendency to detach itself from the full context of life; to turn away from the immediate reality of its environment. Our wisdom, if we have any, will keep

5 us aware of that danger, and impel us deliberately to maintain the context. The job is not to examine Thrasymachus in vacuo, but rather to relate him ojr his work to the immediate and banal reality of this twentieth century life in its par- ticular colonial aspect, without breaking the continuity of the general tradition. What 3oes it mean if you can recite Eliot, but can't replace a burnt-out electric fuse, or pitch camp efficiently? A further question suggests itself: What ddes Eliot, or William Shakespeare, mean to the bricklayer who helps to build the municipal theatre or the new public library? If you want a picture to have any sort of definition, or meaning, it's generally accepted that you should frame it. If you want the academic activity to have a similar definition and meaning you must frame it also. Note that in framing it you do not detach it from life. You make possible a meaningful relationship with life, the establishment of a context. Frame it, give it shape and definition, give it a relationship to the wider context (as a picture has to the room it is in) ; but don't expect to establish a genuine connection with the life of society by means of (say) extension courses, or the incorporation of more and more 'practical subjects.' Kiwi can help in the process of definition, and in the establishment of a true context. To do this it must be free to publish, not only the work of University students, but also of writers who are interested in the same things as are Univer- sity people. For in the proper hierarchy of society the University sodality and the artists (of all kinds) should find themselves rubbing shoulders and com- paring notes. Eliot, the poet, may not mean anything to the bricklayer. But what Eliot represents, and is a part of, can mean something to him, and probably does. It is the bricklayer's insight into life through his own experience that makes it possible for Eliot, Shakespeare and himself to belong to the same context, even though the connection is not immediately evident to the bricklayer himself. The part to be played by the University in a society in which common assumptions rule beneath the diversity of the social order should be obvious on a little reflection. And the part that a University journal such as this might, and should, serve, in keeping the context in order should also be clear.

6 GRASPING THE NETTLE

Now maris great day is almost done, the colonels and the touts depart; still Lingers tiny on the Down, a kike conversing with a tart. The crammed last bus, last Hope, is gone, and we, benighted, squeamish girls, coldly regard how, darkly blown, the crowd's foul pleasure-litter whirls.

edgell rickword.

ULGING RACE TRAMS disgorge the punters on to the streets of Megalopolis, where discarded tram and tote tickets are blowing along the gutters, along with the crumpled paper flowers of yesterday's celebration of the Milennium. Among these subdued pleasure seekers there are, almost for certain, one or two academic people who have tried out infallible mathematical systems and, unaccountably, have come back to town lighter in the pocket. They are as disillusioned as the rest; like the rest, they are very thoughtful, and shiver slightly in the rising wind: bad luck behind, bad weather before them. It is small wonder that their morning hopes have given place to anxiety and a kind of thin despair. For even the most cloistral of their colleagues, those who have never walked down the hill and taken a ticket in the great gamble, are dis- turbed and apprehensive. Cold winds are blowing from far away, stirring the local dust. In the weather sky is a rash of cirrus, hinting at storms to come. The barometer is still falling steadily. Rheumatic twinges in the joints provide evidence that is subjective, and therefore the more convincing, that there are difficult days ahead.

What are the purposes of the University? What is its proper relationship to society? University people all over the western world are debating these questions more anxiously as time goes on. Small wonder if (dropping all metaphor) we find that the more thoughtful of them are filled with apprehension. For the question that begins to obtrude itself is not whether salaries will be increased, or the new build- ing scheme set in motion. The real question that has to be faced is whether the

7 University will be able to exist at all in the kind of society toward which we are moving. I do not wish my meaning to be mistaken. Undoubtedly, if we survive the impact of the atomic age, we shall have large buildings of one sort or another in which the techniques of applied physics, bookkeeping, dental surgery, 'news- presentation,' social hygiene and town planning are practised and taught. Scholastic study will still be allowed to go on in a few odd corners, mainly for purposes of ornament and prestige. These places will still, no doubt, out of reverence for dead tradition, be called 'Universities.' But if we find that their entire nature and purpose have been changed, honesty may perhaps compel us in the end to find a name for them that is less misleading. The harsh truth must be taken into the mind and endured: certain tendencies thai; in the past have been discussed as more or less remote possibilities have come to wear a more frightening look. They appear, not as possibilities, but as proba- bilities. It now seems likely that the 'closed' society, in one form or another, will come to be established. The drift of events and of social processes is bearing ms steadily in that direction. Social Security, and that wolf in sheep's clothing, the 'full emploviiK lit' policy, lead logically to an extension of State power. The con- centration of economic authority in the hands of the State, the building-up of a system of interlocking 'controls,' the increase of State revenue and its expenditure in an ever-widening field, all point toward the same shore.

I have very little doubt, myself, but that all this must lead on to barbarism, unless heroic measures are taken to circumvent the defects and dangers of the 'planned' society. Perhaps that suggests the realistic way to look at the matter: perhaps we should accept planning as an inevitable outcome of industrial civilisa- tion, and concentrate our efforts on dilution, modification and benevolent frustra- tion of the Single Will that such a system must constantly tend to bring into being. If so, there seems to be very little hope of such a course offering us plain sailing; especially in view of the all-too-evident fact that at present we are just plain drifting. My use of the word 'barbarism' needs justifying. The matter may be viewed from any one of a number of different (but related) standpoints; it may be discussed within various 'frames of reference.' Since it is the status of the University in society that we are concerned about at the moment, perhaps I may best put it in this way—that a society without institutions cannot, as I see it, hope to escape barbarism. And that is what faces us: the prospect of having to

8 live (or of our children having to live) in a society in which the specialised func- tion and authority of every existing institution have been absorbed into the cen- tralised power and authority of the State.. In such an event there would be only one institution in society—the State itself. But to use the word 'institution' in such a way is to deprive it of all meaning. Church, School, Family, Army, Press and the other institutions of society have in the past enjoyed the right to exercise their various specialised functions in the body politic. Did I write 'Army? No, not the Army—for it has been (in theory, and for the most part in practice) a simple instrument of State power. This has been tolerable because the status of the Army has been a very special one, not extending to the institutions proper. Give all social institutions the same status as the Army and you have produced the totalitarian State—which has no institutions, but only instruments. And (as is fully implied) its essential char- acter will be military. Am I required to prove that totalitarianism is a form of barbarism? I could work out some threadbare analogies between the body politic and the human body, and I think they would be valid. But they are sufficiently obvious. Let us proceed on our way.

The university is one of the major institutions of society. More than that it is closely linked with other important institutions. If it ceases to exercise the function and authority proper to it, then it will cease to be the University in any connotation that word may have for us at present. In a totalitarian society it must of necessity lose its proper function and authority. The chief (and central) function of the University is the study of philosophy, in the full extension of the word. It has other functions, but they are all related in some way to that central one. Of course, the University to-day tends to be rather like a department store, with gents' haberdashery on the second floor, iron- mongery on the third and philosophy just round the corner to the left. (Watch that you don't bump your head.) This state of affairs is not really defensible. The University should be concerned not only with the diversity of knowledge, but also in some sense with the unity of knowledge. I think we can dismiss from our minds the hope that any sort of integration of University life and thought can be brought about as quickly and easily as one might call spirits from the vasty deep. More deliberately, I think we should dis- miss from our minds the notion of an authoritarian University, held together by rigid bonds of doctrine. The unity we seek must be first of all a unity of purpose

9 —based on the pursuit and organisation of knowledge, the re-examination of accepted ideas (and of discarded ideas), and the consciousness of impending bank- ruptcy. There is no need for us to assume that knowledge can ever be fully organised. Of course it can't, humanly speaking. The very notion is suspect, and smells of the inquisition chamber. No doubt there will be certain funda- mental beliefs held in common by all those concerned; and these beliefs should be examined and clarified, along with others, as part of the task of the University. But the mould of the University should always be that of liberalism. Belief should emerge, and not be imposed. Liberalism is, one might say, the specific climate of the University. Even an authoritarian society might help to preserve its health by insisting on its Univer- sities being maintained on a liberal basis. (By 'liberal' I mean this: that whatever beliefs may be acted upon—action being unavoidable—every question must be regarded formally as an 'open' one, and therefore subject to debate. If I am told that this implies the dogma of scepticism, I can only reply that I am prescribing a function for a particular institution, not for all institutions, or for society as a whole.) It is not the duty of the University to save the soul of society. But society (speaking in terms of analogy) must save its soul somehow or other; and in doing so it must make use of its institutions. The University can assist by first recog- nising the need for belief, and then by helping belief to emerge. It is clear that in a 'closed' society it would necessarily become in some sense an underground movement if it was to fulfil its functions to any extent at all.

The closed society, if it comes into being, may in theory take either a religious or a secular form. The sort of society toward which we are drifting will, I fear, be pseudo-religious in character: at all events, while it is consolidating itself —for power, while it is 'on the make,' finds hypocrisy indispensable. Its 'sales talk' and its ideological shop-front will perhaps recall the positivist State of Comte. (Most current schemes for world political reform or revolution convey strong echoes of Comte; but of course they are much less dewy-eyed.) The reality of the 'closed' society will be less agreeable than the prospectus will lead us to believe, for it will be based on an intense, concentration of power. There never has been, and of course there never can be, a• society that is completely 'open,' where reason is fully effective. But the belief in 'openness,' established at the Renaissance, is something we cannot afford to sacrifice lightly, however deep our despair of human reason. We know that society is ruled by

10 taboo as much as by reason, and if we are wise we accept that rule gracefully. To relax the tension between reason and taboo, and to relapse into authoritarian 'cer- tainty' of any kind, would at this stage be disastrous. Our problem is to make reason effective within human limitations, and within the sphere of an institutional society, without falling either into 'rationalism' (I give it inverted commas), or into a rechauffe 'order,' the chief warrant of which would be our own despair. And in this business of sustaining tension the University has a more important role to perform than has any other institution. It is therefore essential that it shall not compromise itself. It is also essential that it shall not deceive itself into thinking the spoon it sups with is longer than it really is.

Perhaps the implications of all this may be conveyed most clearly by imagin- ing a dialogue as going on constantly, in a loose and unformulated way, between State and University, and condensing it in some such fashion as this: U: 'We hold that our proper functions are the development and teaching of knowledge, and the custodianship of ideas and of certain human values. Since practice depends upon theory, we must be free to concentrate as much of our effort as may be necessary on pure research and on disinterested study. And we must be free to interpret our role in the life of society according to the traditions of our own institution rather than in the light of any day-to-day instructions we may receive from you.' S: 'Wait. You forget one thing. You forget that I am the paymaster. The greater part of your income is money that I pass on to you from the people, who have entrusted it to me. It is they who are paying you. And they are entitled to get the particular services they ask for. I merely interpret their wishes.' U: 'Is that all you do? How very odd.' S: 'They need the services of technicians, and they want them, trained— bookkeepers, mechanics, radio repairers, journalists, pig breeders, and all the rest. So I'm afraid you'll have to become a little more practical-minded if you don't want your income to drop off.' U: 'We don't object to teaching certain practical subjects, when they are closely connected with theoretical study. In fact, we think it is our duty to do so. Others we think might be better taught by institutes of technology. The point we're concerned with is a rather different one; and it's not to be settled satisfac- torily by saying that it's merely a question of emphasis. We want to be free to develop knowledge (and that involves the study, not only of facts, but of values,

11 by the way). We must be free to "follow the argument whithersoever it leads." We simply can't have you, or the people, using us for any practical purpose you think fit. You might use a grand piano to play dance tunes on, but you wouldn't use it to chop wood on.' S: 'There is no telling what the people might do if they felt in the mood. And, I repeat, they are supreme.' U: 'But suppose the people are making a mistake? They may be unaware of the proper function of the University. That function is a dual one. The Uni- versity trains men and women for the professions. It also embodies and sustains certain social ideals and traditions of thought, belief and feeling. This latter function is, I can assure you, an entirely necessary one; and it must be exercised in freedom if it is not to become a terrible danger to society rather than an aid to health and sanity. The University acts in a sense, as one might say, as the "brain" of society—or let us be modest and say as one of the lobes. If this is atrophied, or paralysed, society will be endangered. Is it worth risking?' S: 'That is for the people to say. They, after all, are the Supreme Authority in this as in all other matters. You must be prepared, if necessary, to change your whole nature and to serve a different function from that which you say is tradi- tionally yours. That is the meaning of Democracy. . . . But let me try to reassure you. Is it Culture you are anxious about? I am arranging (with the approval of the people, of course) for a vast extension of Adult Education services, with lectures on art appreciation and all that sort of thing. I see no reason why the service rendered by Broadcasting in bringing Culture to every home should not be supplemented by Adult Education on a much wider scale. Don't tell me that this is mere entertainment, and that adults are in the main ineducable, for that is heresy.' U: 'Listen to me for a moment. You say that you merely represent the people and interpret their wishes. But in the circumstances you must have considerable power over them, in helping them to think and to make up their minds. (Per- haps you sometimes make up their minds for them. Possibly at some future time you may instruct us to instal a Department of Propaganda in the University to train experts who can help you in making up the people's minds for them.) Now, if you have any sort of influence over the people, I implore you to tell them what are the proper functions of a University.' S (blandly) : 'Well, I don't mind doing that. I'll do what I can, with pleasure. But I must ask you for a small favour in return. I am worried about the slow pace of our atomic research, and the way we're lagging generally in

12 scientific defence measures. I want you to turn the whole of your Science Faculty loose on the problem, and help me out. It's all in the interests of the nation, you know—and finally in the interests of international brotherhood, if one takes a right view of it. . .

At this point the University either yields gracefully; or goes on to argue the point, proving without much trouble that Twentieth Century man has enjoyed spectacular successes in dealing with the means of living (or dying) on this planet, but has become a little hazy about ends; that the University has taken a leading part in the achievement of these triumphs, and might now be granted the oppor- tunity to adjust the balance by cultivating the humanities and restoring philosophy to its throne in the mind of man. I shall leave it to my readers to decide (a) what ought to happen next/and (b) what probably does happen when the discussion reaches that point.

a. r. d. fairburn

13 THE OUTCAST

1

N THE HIKE up the long metal stretch the three young fellows i passed several hay paddocks. A good few stacks were going up. I 'Hope this is not going to be too tough,' Bill said. 'Tell you all about it to-night,' Fred said.

'You know Fred? they reckon it's not so tough as the v make out, Mac said. 'We'll know all about it to-night,' Fred said. 'That'll be the house up there,' Bill said. The house, which was back from the road, was a sprawling bungalow affair with a verandah all round and vines clothing the verandah poles. You could make that much out through the trees and the browning hedge to the left of the drive. There was a cream stand at the front gate and a small hand cart on the ground. Painted on both stand and hand cart was the word ALISON. Out to the left of the gate was manuka and native undergrowth. Fred tried to open the gate first, but couldn't figure which way the wooden stopper went. Mac lifted one end slightly and it slid easily from the slot. Fred told Bill, who was last man through, to shut the gate after him. A big yellow Dodge stood in a garage at the end of the drive and they hung around examining it. They'd been there a few minutes when a short woman with straight blonde hair came out of the house, her steps along the path beside the garage sounding hollow because of her gum boots. She was pregnant. She wore a silky blue dress and it was tight; they could see the back of her legs above the knee, very full and bare. A small boy, looking like a squat mushroom, with his blue sun helmet down over his ears, clutched the dress. She told them to follow her. The backyard was untidy with planks here and there, and rusty mudguards and an old Ford chassis. The woman walked in the usual swaying way, the boy tagging behind. The farmhouse and yard were on a rise up from the paddocks. The hayfield was shaped like a T-square; a small creek cut across the bottom end of it to form a miniature paddock on the far side. Pigs were grunting in a sty in the yard. They walked down the rise. It was a hellish hot December day. The hay was more brown than yellow, and Bill said that wasn't so good. The woman kept in front until they got to the hayfield fence, then walked up to the pig stv. Alison was on the stack, about four feet from the ground. The grab pole

14 stood straight up behind him. A small brown horse, stumping the ground, was pulling a sweep under the care of a Maori boy. The grab was going up into the air with loads, and there was another horse pulling the grab cable. Alison jumped from the stack and walked to them, his walk a fierce lifting and stamping of the legs. He was a bulky, red-faced joker and he wore a straw hat, thick grey work shirt, grey patched trousers and heavy boots. He shook hands with them, asked their Christian names. He said he was glad to see them. He had a lot of hay to get in, he said, and didn't have much help. He thought there was a couple of days' good work ahead of them. Had they done any harvesting before? he wanted to know. 'No,' Fred told him. 'Done a bit on my uncle's farm in the holidays,' Bill said. 'That's good,' Alison said. 'You come on the stack with me. Anybody drive a car?' Mac said he could. 'Just hang around and I'll go and get the Dodge,' Alison told him. He walked up the rise. The chap guiding the horse on the grab cable was a thin Hindu with; a lined, deep-tan face and black, sad-looking eyes. The horse was a scaly, grey- black mare, old as the hills. They had a bit of a yarn with the Hindu. He told them he was working for Alison for the day, but when they asked what sort of bird Alison was he shrugged his shoulders. His long fingers worked affectionately down the mare's neck. Soon as Alison was out of sight the Maori boy stopped sweeping and sat on the sweep about ten yards from the stack watching them. Suddenly a little girl in a floppy sun helmet, like the one the boy had worn, ran from behind the stack and went for her life across the paddock. It was the boss' kid, the Hindu said. Pretty soon the yellow Dodge showed up on top of the rise. As it did the Maori boy was whooping the sweep along the paddock, bumping over the ruts. The car sped down, stopped halfway to pick up the girl, then came on. As it passed they could see Alison with a grip of the wheel, his enormous arms embrac- ing it. Beside him the girl's sun helmet just showed. The car stopped with a racket of gears and Alison got out. He unhooked the mare from the grab cable. The Hindu guided the horse away. Alison backed the Dodge, tied the grab cable to the fender. He drove the car up and down a bit, then told Mac to hop in and have a go. Mac roared the engine and had the

15 car moving. The grab went into the air, came down with a jerk when Mac gave the engine a bit too much juice. Soon, though, he was working her smoothly, taking it easy. Alison said that would be all right. He took Bill on the stack, told Fred to help Paul, the Maori boy. All this time the Hindu had stood to the left of the stack, beside the scaly horse, his fingers working down its neck, not watching Alison or the others, but looking over the horse's back at nothing.

2 The first half-hour or so Alison worked like mad on the stack, the loads going up so big the grab pole wobbled in protest. A couple of times loads tumbled back to the ground. Fred and the Maori boy had their work cut out with the sweep. Paul held the reins, steering the horse, while Fred pressed down on the sweep handles, keep- ing the prongs in the air. Once, when they were out almost as far as the creek that cut the bottom end of the paddock, Fred heard a shout. At first he didn't think it was meant for him. Then it was repeated. 'What the hell you think you're doing?' Fred looked at Paul. Paul grinned. 'The boss talking to us?' Paul nodded. 'We better get back then.' Alison was spluttering crazily when they dumped the load beside the stack, wanted to know what the hell, .what the hell, all the time. Fred, who'd been working steadily on the sweep, kind of liking the job, felt knocked back com- pletely, felt a fool. But it wasn't long before they'd all got their share. The Hindu had tied his horse to a post and was guiding the grab, releasing it when it was over the stack, not seeming to notice Alison's insults. 'Got a pretty bad temper, hasn't he?' Fred said to Paul. Paul only grinned. Mac, who wasn't used to the Dodge, reckoned the battery had run down. Alison told him, and everybody for miles around, that there was not a bloody thing wrong with the car; the driver was the only one to blame. On the stack Bill was forking the hay from the centre to the sides and he must have looked like the one working the hardest, because Alison kept asking him if he'd ever known such a useless pack of bastards.

16 They slogged away in the hot sun, the sky a clean pale blue and cloudless. The sweep seemed to be getting no nearer the creek; when it did they knew they'd be breaking the back of the job. The girl, who was about five, stood by the stack watching everybody, feet pointed in, hands behind her back, quizzing from under the sun helmet. Some- times, right out in the paddock, Fred would look back and she'd be standing there, very small against the mounting stack.

3

About half past eleven Mrs Alison came down with a couple of billies and a basket, placed them next to a short length of fence beside the stack where there was a little shade. The boy,"the mushroom, had followed his mother and stood by her, one podgy hand still clasping the blue dress. Secretly Fred watched the woman and child. He figured she knew he was looking at her. But she didn't look at him. She stood so that the sun shone through the thin dress ,and he could see the outline of her figure. Ordinarily she'd have a pretty nifty figure. A broad-brimmed beach hat covered the straight fair hair and she'd taken the gum boots off and now wore white sand shoes. Both children stood beside her, the girl telling the boy what was going on and pointing to Alison, saying 'Daddy, daddy.' They boy stared openly at his sister; he looked as if he had just been awakened. They were both fair. The girl was very much like her mother. Fred couldn't see Alison in either of them; their features were not as sharp as his. Alison bellowed: 'Morning tea!' They gathered about the billies. Mrs Alison leaned over and removed the lids. One billy contained oatmeal water and the other lime juice. The basket was half-full of freshly-baked cakes and thin tomato sandwiches. Mac and Bill sat next to the billies and Fred moved under the shade of the stack, the Hindu standing beside him. They had to keep urging Paul to come and get something to eat; he was shy with all of them gathered together like that. Alison went on working. Fred lay back watching Mrs Alison. She spoke briefly when Mac and Bill asked about the children or the food. The cakes were very nice and the sand- wiches were a bit dainty but tasty. 'This is the life,' Bill said. He had his shirt off, sunbathing. He was like that; if he was happy at the moment he forgot the time before, the curses and the insults. Anyway, he'd come off lightly compared with Mac and Fred. 'You want

17 to be careful of this sun,' Mrs Alison said. 'I brown easily,' Bill said. 'You're lucky,' she said. Alison got to the ground, poked with a fork at the sides of the stack, trim- ming them off. Right on his heels, the girl trailed him, flitting back every time he stood off to see what he'd done. Then, his face fire-hot and with sweat stream- ing from him, he walked across to the billies. His shirt was damp and his straw hat was pushed to the back of his head. 'Well, what's she look like?' he wanted to know. 'Doesn't look bad,' Bill said. Alison had another look. 'Wants a bit more off the top there. Want to keep L . e I back so's you can see where you've been.' 'it's net a bad stack,' Bill said. What you reckon, Charlie?' Alison asked. 'She's all right,' the Hindu said, without looking. 'I'll show the bastards I don't need their help,' Alison said. 'Leave me in the dirt. You know, I've never used props to build a stack yet. I've never built a stack that fell over. And by Christ I build better stacks than anybody in this district!' He was gulping the oatmeal water. 1 hey didn't like the taste of it, but he said it was the best thing you could drink on a hayfield. He didn't touch the lime juice, so the others cleaned it up. He took a couple of handfuls of sandwiches and emptied the basket. He broke in half one of the two remaining cakes and r ave one piece to the girl and the other to the boy. He spoke to the kids as though they were adults, not minding his swearing. The girl would point out something to him and he would say 'Yes,' and go on talking about the stack. 'Oh Christ!' he said suddenly. They looked at him. 'You didn't bring enough sandwiches, Mary,' he said. 'I told you there'd be half a dozen men. You didn't bring enough.' 'I'll go and make some more,' Mrs Alison said. God, thought Fred, she's not going to climb that rise and go right up to the house just to make sandwiches for us. 'I've had enough,' he said. Bill and Mac said they had, too. 'She can make some more,' Alison said. 'I told her to bring enough for half a dozen men. That lot she brought wouldn't feed a couple of kids.' I'll make some more,' she said. She picked up the billies and Fred fancied she glanced quickly at him. She

18 started off across the paddock. Alison told the girl to go with her mother so's she could bring back the sandwiches. He wanted the boy to stay, but the kid wouldn't let go of his mother's skirt and started to whimper. Fred watched the woman and the two children until they were out of sight past the pig sty. Mac went down to the Dodge to get his cigarettes from his coat. Fred followed him. 'What do you think?' 'Shall we throw it in?' 'He' s a cow of a joker all right,' Fred said. 'One part of it I felt like belting him,' Mac said. 'He'd kill you,' Fred said. 'Reckon we ought to see the day out now we've gone this far.' Alison was waiting for them, smoking a cigarette. They lit up too. 'She's only a city girl,' Alison said. ' Fakes a long time to catch on to things. Slow. Not a bad cook, but slow. Know what these city tarts are.' Those cakes were pretty good,' Bill said. 'She can cook.' He sucked his cigarette fiercely. 'See those kids? Bloody good-looking kids, eh?' 'Very healthy looking,' Fred said. 'Beautiful pair of kids,' Alison said. 'That's why I married her, you know. Can see she's nothing to look at herself. But those kids!' 'They're not yours?' Bill asked. 'Christ no!' Alison said. '1 was married before. Got divorced. Married this sheila. Wouldn't give two pins for her, except for the kids.' Fred thought of the woman and he wouldn't have said she was as unappeal- ing as Alison tried to make out. Remembering the way she'd looked at him, he felt funny. He felt as though he should defend her in some manner. Then he loosened up, lay against the stack once more. For five minutes after the girl brought the second lot of sandwiches they talked. Then they returned to work. It was certainly a scorcher, too hot to last; the sky cloudless, hardly any breeze. 4 Early in the afternoon Charlie the Hindu got Alison going again. Charlie had hitched his scaly horse to a post and it drooped there all morning. It must have given Alison the pip to see the horse doing nothing while he belted Old Nick out of himself, and he told Charlie to hitch the horse to another sweep lying up the rise a bit and give Paul a hand. Charlie went crook. He said his 19 horse was very old. It was too old, he said, to pull a sweep. It would drop dead. 'You get that horse tied up,' Alison told him. 'Much too old,' Charlie said. 'What's the use of it?' Alison asked. 'Drop dead,' Charlie said. Well, what use is a nag like that on a hay field?' Alison said. 'You hitch it up.' Grumbling, the Hindu hitched his horse to the sweep. But the horse seemed dazed; it wouldn't walk straight when Charlie got behind the sweep and gid- daped it. So Alison told Fred to lead it, and Fred grabbed the halter just below the bit. Alison told them to work the piece of paddock across the creek. They found a crossing where there was little water and piled hay there until there was reasonably easy passage; even then, though, Fred could feel the horse shudder every time it had to pull the sweep up the bank. And, every time they crossed, Charlie looked at the horse worriedly. They took things pretty easy. 'This work too hard for such an old horse,' Charlie told Fred. 'She's certainly sweating a good bit,' Fred said. 'Much too hard,' Charlie said. 'You work for this chap every year?' 'Last year for me. Too ungrateful a man. Nobody else work for him. Nobody else in the district.' 'He's got a bad temper,' Fred said. 'Too ungrateful,' Charlie said. 'Paul doesn't seem to mind working for him.' Charlie said nothing more. About three o'clock he unhitched his horse from the sweep and led it across the hay paddock, up the rise, and out of sight. He did this very slowly, not looking once at Alison. And when he had gone Fred returned to the stack and grasped the rope hanging from the grab. 'Now you can do some work,' Alison said. 'What?' Alison repeated that Fred could do some work now, didn't say any more. Fred was wild as anything. Some minutes after Charlie disappeared Alison seemed to wake up to what hadj happened. He stood on the stack calling the Hindu every dirty name under the sun. He cursed the neighbouring farmers, hoped they were seeing his stack go up. It was to be bigger than any stack in the district. He could build better stacks than anybody.

20 I'll put a match to the whole bloody lot,' he said. It can all go up in flames. I'll put a match to it.' 'This joker's as mad as a meataxe,' Fred told Mac. 'You won't catch me here tomorrow,' Mac said. He had the jitters all the time in case the Dodge stopped. On the stack Bill was worried too. He'd been doing as he was told, but he was worried. 5

I he sky wasn't cloudless any more. The clouds came from nowhere about four o'clock. The little girl kept crying that it was going to rain. She was a chatterbox in the afternoon, pointing to things, following the sweep every trip. Alison looked across the sky and, when his wife came down with the billies at jhaljf past four, said they'd better carry on for a bit in case it did rain. As before, Mrs Alison stood by the length of fence, the boy and girl beside her. She wore gumboots this time. 1 he broad-brimmed beach hat was gone and she had a blue ribbon in her hair. Standing at one corner of the stack, out of Alison's sight, Fred looked openly at her. She looked back at him. They stared at each other for about a minute, though, to Fred, it seemed longer. Her skin was clear and pink and for the minute the dull eyes were alive. Fred felt disturbed; he told himself she was begging him, she was ready to be made. She looked down. The little girl was studying her mother curiously, sensing something. Alison called: 'Time to milk the cows, isn't it?' Mrs Alison said she was just going. Her voice was as emotionless as when she had previously spoken, and this troubled Fred. She did not look at him. Followed by the children, she walked up the rise. On top, by the pig-sty, they were insignificant black stumps. 6 They knocked off at half past five. Alison stood some distance from the stack, admiring it, praising it, praising himself. It wasn't bad, he said. He'd never made a bad stack yet. The other bastards would wonder how the hell he did it. 'You haven't done bad,' he told them. They didn't believe him. Paul was embarrassed when Alison patted him on the head. He'd been

21 Cursed as much as anybody, but he kept right on sweeping. He'd worked in a thick coat and pants until late in the afternoon when Alison ordered him to take off his coat, saying 'Never mind the holes in your shirt, take the coat off.' And, sure enough, when Paul took off the coat his shirt was full of holes. They drank quickly from the billies, impatient to be away from the place. Over at the Dodge, Alison said: 'Hey, you fellows, come here.' They thought he was going to pay them. He pulled out his wallet but it wasn't to pay them. He wanted to show them photographs of a few of his hard-case lady friends. Most of them were in bathing costumes, fleshy-looking tarts with painted faces, and one wore a kimono that didn't leave much guesswork. 'This is what I go into town for, boys,' he said. 'Not bad,' Bill said. Alison gave them the history of each photograph. The sheilas were sluts and their histories were not much different from one another. Fred had a quick glance, then left them to Bill. The rain was sudden and fierce; drops became heavier in seconds and the sky seemed to empty out everything. Fred ran up the rise, Mac following. Bill, who was standing by the Dodge, veiled. Mac and Fred yelled back, told Bill to pull his finger out. He started running. Alison was in the Dodge. Sheltering in the garage, Fred ignored the other two, stood staring at the window of the farm-house, watching for Mrs Alison. But she didn't appear. And he never saw her again.

david ballantyne

THE FORTY-HOUR WEEK

The Lord Jehovah, having worked six days, Found one day more enough his work to praise. New Zealanders alone have need of two To contemplate the work they didn't do.

s.m.

22 f OUR POEMS BY JAMES K. BAXTER

TO MY FATHER

Today, looking at the flowering peach, The island off the shore and waves that break Quiet upon the rocks and level beach— We must join forces, you and I, remake The harbour silted and the city bombed And all our hopes that lie now fire-entombed.

Your country childhood helped to make you strong (Ploughing at twelve). I only know the man. While I grew up more sheltered and too long In love with my diseases—though illness can Impart by dint of pain a different kind Of toughness to the predatory mind.

There is a feud between us. I have loved You more than my own good, because you stand For country pride and gentleness, engraved In forehead lines, veins swollen on the hand. Alsd behind slow speech and quiet eye The rock of passionate integrity

You were a poet whom the time betrayed To action. So as Jewish Solomon Prayed for wisdom, you had prayed That you might have a poet for a son. The prayer was answered: but an answer may Confound by its exactness those who pray.

This you know well, but it will bear repeating. Almost at times you seem a second self; Almost at times I feel your heart beating In my own breast, as if there were no gulf To sever us. And you have seemed then rather An out-of-time twin brother than a father.

23 So much is true. Yet I have seen the time When I would cut the past out like a cancer, Which now I must digest in awkward rhyme Until I move 'in rhythm like a dancer.' To know an age when all our loves have scope: It is too much for any man to hope. You, tickling trout once in a water race; You, playing cards not caring if you lost; You, shooting hares high on the mountain face; You, showing me the ferns than grow from frost; You, quoting Burns and Byron while I listened; You, breaking quartz until the mica glistened.

These I remember, with the wind that blows For ever pure down from the tussock ranges; And these remain, like the everlasting snows Changeless in me while my life changes— These and a thousand things that prove You rooted like a tree in the land's love. I shall compare you to the bended bow, Myself the arrow launched upon the hollow Resounding air. And I must go In time, my friend, to where you cannot follow. It is not love would hope to keep me young, 1 he arrow rusted and the bow unstrung.

We have one aim: to set men free From fear and custom and the incessant war Of self with self and city against city, So they may know the peace that they were born for And find the earth sufficient, who instead For fruit give scorpions and stones for bread. And I sit now beside the wishing well And drop my silver down. I will have sons And you grandchildren yet to tell Old tales despite the anger of the guns: Leisure to stroll and meet Him unafraid Who walked with Adam once in the green shade.

24 TO WARD OFF DEMONS

Razor or loaded pipe with an enemy; With curs a cudgel's some security— Against demons there's no remedy.

Far and wide I've questioned. From my friends I gain no satisfaction. One commends Weight-lifting and goat's milk; another, prayer. Brandy is worthless; exorcism too dear. So I'd be driven to endure the foul Hair-hung face under a rigid cowl That sucks my sleeping breath, and those That gibber spider-fingered at my windows—

But for one trim slim tender-breasted tart Who nightly nestles by me in blind dark Curls clustered on the pillow, legs apart.

HART CRANE

This pokt, fallen in love with a steel robot, Drinking bad whisky in New York for years, Wrung out catharsis in a urinal And public poetry from private fears.

So pity him, that mining the black gold Of picphecy, he dug his own grave. Mars'nhre by night and at full noon the cold Vertiginous terror of the buried alive.

And praise him who for the new Birdman built That rainbow bridge which only gods can walk (Forgetting the dark river underneath Whose waves roll back a drunken sailor's talk).

25 Till Death, death, death, the black bells told From towers of agony. Perfection was his vice: And no man came where his heart glittered perfect The violent crystal in a world of ice.

Till in the Caribbean that gross hulk Face downwards tossed in a widening wake, was free. And his dead heart became a continent; His hands unclenched embraced the swollen sea.

VIRGINIA LAKE

The lake lies blind and glinting in the sun. Among the reeds the red-billed native birds Step high like dancers. I have found A tongue to praise them, who was dumb; And from the deaf morass one word Breaks with the voices of the numberless drowned.

This was the garden and the talking water Where once a child walked and wondered At the leaves' treasure house, the brown ducks riding Over the water face, the four winds calling His name aloud, and a green world under Where fish like stars in a fallen heaven glided.

And for his love the eyeless statues moved Down the shell paths; the bandstand set On fire with music blazing at its centre Was havened in his love. The lichened elm was rafters overhead, Old waves unlocked their gates for him to enter.

Who now lies dumb, the black tongue dry And the eyes weighed with coins. O out of this rock tomb Of labyrinthine grief, I start and cry Toward his real day: the undestroyed Fantastic Eden of a waking dream.

26 THE SMALL HOUSE

I: NEW DREAMLAND

New Zealand doesn't exist. Not now even a long white cloud, just erewhon. Somehow life escaped, slid out of the real world into the Dream. Dream, Symbol, Ideal, ESCAPE, these our beginning, our past, our present: Nightmare or Re- presentation. 'What do you stand for?' Our little romance: God's Own Country and the three-piece suite. 'House the worker (?) like a millionaire' Let's all live like }. P. Morgan, coney coats and frigidaires. Dreams, dreams, dreams, nothing real but all 'instead of.' Architecture is real. But there is no architecture in New Zealand. NONE! For architecture begins with living, with real people living translated directly into real buildings. Dreams, illusions, aesthetics, effects are not architecture. It is building (s) for people.

II: A DIALOGUE

A—Oh yes of course. Architecture is an expression of society, of an age, of social needs—sociology and all that. But we all agree about things like that. B—No we don't. We don't think that at all, we of the bungalow bourgeoisie. We don't give a damn for social or any other needs. We wonder how things will look to the neighbours. 'What will people think?' 'In New Zealand everything is what it looks' rather than vice versa, if you see what I mean. The blinds all neatly drawn, the curtains frilled, and the front room suite for the visitors, for pride and prejudice, but not, no hardly, to sit on. A—But really we must have curtains and blinds and suites and so on. B—Really fiddlesticks. It is not real at all. The whole box of tricks is—well, just a box of tricks! The tricks of the dreamer's trade. Do you need that 'sitting;' room and chesterfield? / O A—Well no, I suppose not. But I do need room to sit comfortably, and a chair to sit on, light and easily moved for preference. B—And at a third the price. A—But could I get it? B—Of course you could. And what of the bedroom, dining and all the other suites. Aren't they just part of the racket to sell the dreamer dreams, three pieces

27 at a time, £80 of veneer-wrapped junk, where weli-made plain would do? Aren't they just the stage props of the national illusion? Plaster dogs and galleon firescreens, bunnies on the lawn and bats in the belfry. Why litter even a 'home' jyith vulgar rubbish, bogus symbols? A—But what else can I do if there is only muck to buy? (Here he breaks down, reality is top much and he slinks back into the universal nightmare.) And besides I would like my home fully furnished.

Next day I met him again, this New Zealander who is you and /. (After all we are all the same. The bloke who called Hitler 'the triumph of mediocrity' obviously did not know New Zealand.} A—Oh there you are. I've been thinking. B—Yes? A—Well—well anyway, what you say is all very well. But what about the government houses? B—Ah yes, the state house. There we have it. That's planning. Petty plan- ning, planned mediocrity, deliberate suburbanism. It's a sentimental and ruth- less imposition of the small existence, 'a New Zealand Way of Life.' Dictator- ship! A—Dictatorship? I think that's going too far. Why, every house is different! B—On the face of it. Different for the sake of being different, bogus dif- ference, difference without meaning. Porches, trellises, variegated tiles; tawdry baubles that maintain the illusion of individuality, of freedom, of choice, a choice that doesn't exist. Even suburbia leaves a loophole. Sargeson, if you've heard of him, is all suburbia but good to boot. There'll be no Sargesons in the state suburbia. A—But at least it's neat and tidy. B—Neat and tidy hell! Suburbia is chaotic, but let's have chaos if sterility is the alternative. Neatness is nothing. Vitality and richness, really living, that is the aim of architecture. Order is merely a result, the end is freedom to live. And freedom is a condition, the condition of being able to do what you will. Freedom is not in the jungle, but where men by their joint intelligent effort make willing and choosing possible. If you will to live in a house the house must be there, and it must make your living real. The house is a means, a thing, a machine for living in (poetically speaking of course). We, dreamers, have enslaved ourselves to the properties of our dream. The house (NZ) is a machine for dreaming in.

28 UMDHIIBB jpqWB MBU&MH3B The next time 1 met him he took a different • tack: Culture. A—The spirit and all that. Function's all very well, but there's something more than that. B—Yes. There is something more—more to the people. If building proceeds directly from living it will express the life of those for whom it is. But when you try to express this something more, these deeper intangible feelings, you are playing a game, making a mockery of such things. Oh yes you are. You are trying to design human beings, to mould their lives (characters). As if that were a noble thing, to mould character like lumps of dough.

. • , 1 l : ur it

Iwiw

i iH't

court

House for I. D. Macintosh, Tawa Flat, Wellington, by Frank Stockman THREE REAL H O U S EiS House for T. D.Jenkins, Titirangl, by James Mackshaw

31 A—Oh, not lumps of dough, precious human lives. Our eyes water delicately and we descend as always into the slop, the bogus dream instead of the real, sentiment (slushy casting out emotion (strength and richness). A—But culture? B—'Art, culture, grows directly out of our daily living and working, or it's not culture at all, but superior distraction, socially (in Society) more acceptable than beer, betting and Hollywood. Myself I can't see the difference: perhaps beer is less effete.

And just before he died A—Shouldn't the architect give the people what they want? B—Hypocrite, he does. But his task is to help them decide what they need, and simply to build for that.

Ill: ARCHITECTURE The architect translates real needs directly into real building. In a world without values he must seek out and evaluate the forces and needs of his time and place (of his clients) and seek to identify himself with them. These forces become the drive within his work which more and more is their full and ordered expres- sion. The architect must identify himself with the real, with the reality which lies behind our Dream. OF course he is an artist, a man of sensibility. But it never did an artist any harm to use his brains. Using one's brains leads to something like this: Space is one, indivisible. You can't divide it up into little parcels. When you try, space is lost. Volumes result. If you plan volumes (boxes) you are reduced to making plans work. Having planned a series of boxes in which activities are to occur, you have then to join them together in such a way that the people inside can get from one to the other. You are forcing people into packages, however well designed they may be. Like tinned sardines they are severely limited. They are in the classic position of twentieth century man, bond slaves to their own machines. All activities occur in space. All life is movement in space. Beneath our lives there is a discoverable pattern of coming and going, of this moving in space. This pattern of movement becomes the plan of the house—it is the plan of the lives of the people. The architect does not invent plans—he discovers them.

32 He imposes nothing. Spirit, emotion, all the intangibles, these spring from the lives of persons, never from buildings, which are things You can't make build- ing express anything. You can only, by trickery, achieve 'effects'—or by intelli- gent and sensitive discovery give living people such shelter as will help them to express, or more exactly, to realise themselves. This is the revolution in architecture. Not adventures in space—space thrilling our 'aesthetic emotions.' But to confirm by the organisation of material objects the plan of movement in space, of comings and goings and doings, which is in the lives of persons.

TWO METHODS 1 1 Find out what the client wants. 2 Give it to him. 3 Sprinkle delicately with 'good taste.' 4 Submit to Home and Building. 2 1 Find out what things the family will do in the house, how thev will do them, and why. That is, help them discover their true intentions, the things they really will in living. 2 Discover with the family the plan, the pattern of coming and going which exists in their lives and which knowledge and imagination can make visible, useable. 3 Call from technical knowledge the materials—walls, floors, sinks, cupboards, windows, lavatories, etc.—which are necessary to life's activities. 4 So dispose these material objects in space that by their relationship they directly confirm this plan which already exists in the lives of the family concerned. This (4) is the act of creative synthesis. This way the house will be at least a house. Depending on how well, how directly and sensitively this is done the house will be as well a work of true architecture.

A HOUSE IS A HOME IS A DREAM, or A HOUSE IS A HOUSE IS A HOUSE.

bill wilson

33 RETURN

HE MOMENT he was left to himself he moved over to the long window overlooking the grounds, still thinking, Why had it to be here, in this house, of all places? Outside there was no wind and the sun slanting against the motionless branches made shadow patterns on the lawns. The native shubbery stood out darkly against the burnt copper of the oaks. He remembered how the coming evenings would be soft and still, with mist slowly gathering around the trunks. Later there would be rain and the black water of the creek would swell and sweep away spinning clusters of leaves and dead twigs. And after the rain reflection- less pools would lie under the trees and in the hollows of rotting logs. A man wearing a shapeless hat and carrying a gardening fork stepped out of the trees and walked across the bottom lawn. Jennings! he thought excitedly, almost upsetting the forgotten cup and saucer in his hand. Then he remem- bered, Jennings had been an old man. He must have died years ago. A quiet voice interrupted his thoughts, Autumn, everything is dying . . . the season of decay.' It was the young man with scanty blond hair, wearing a clerical collar, whom he had noticed earlier sitting in a corner alone. They' stood for a moment without speaking, looking out into the greying light. 'It's always rather sad, don't you think?' the curate continued. Behind them a faded voice had risen uncertainly above the flickering con- versations, . . greatest pleasure to welcome these brave boys back into our midst.' They turned and sat down respectfully. It must be the mayor, he thought, noticing the winged collar and the dark, carefully-pressed suit. The voice wav- ered, then with a confident spurt became louder, '. . . if I mav so express myself, these gallant knights of the air, who by their fine record of service with the Royal Air Force, have added lustre to the name of New Zealand. These men to whom we . . He glanced around at the other uniformed figures. Alan was slumped in his chair, his brow puckered, staring hard at the end of his cigarette. Michael, his face studiedly expressionless, was fiddling with the strap of his wrist watch. Rex had been trying to attract his attention. He was leaning forward so that he was partly screened from the rest of the room by a high-backed mahogany chair. He was making self-depreciating gestures and grinning desperately. Reluctantly, inevitably, his gaze shifted to Mrs Chatterton, the hostess. She

34 was sitting with her head inclined toward the speaker. Her hair that he remem- bered as having glimmers of grey was now white, and harsher lines marked her strong, immobile features. Thinking of the first time he had seen that cold, implacable face, he felt again the shock and sharp thrust of rising emotion.

He was holding his mother's gloved hand as they walked up a tree-lined drive toward a big house, when they came upon a tall lady walking in the garden. 'Gocd afternoon,' his mother said. Finally the lady looked up. Her eyes seemed to mock them. It was a look that he had seen before, when people heard his mother's Cockney accent. 'Well?' the lady demanded. 'I ... I answered the advertisement ... for a maid,' his mother said. 'Oh, indeed.' The inescapable eyes held them for several moments. 'Well, if there is anything you wish to know ask Mrs Johnston, the housekeeper.'

'Why so serious?' Mrs Wells asked, lowering her wide hips into the chair at his side. He continued to stare at the bone-white knuckles of his still tightly- clenched hands. Groping for a reply, he began, 'I was—' Mrs Wells interrupted, 'I was only saying to Mrs Chatterton—Oh, here she is! So nice of her to have the "welcome home" here when there wasn't a hall available. Hello my dear! I was just saying to Flight Lieutenant—' Mrs Chatterton swept past and stood for a moment by the window. Then she turned to Mrs Wells. 'That girl, wherever can she be? Her car isn't in the garage yet!' 'Well, she's young,' Mrs Wells said feelingly. 'When I was her age—' 'I don't know what she does with all her time,' Mrs Chatterton complained. 'Well, she has her Red Cross work, my dear,' Mrs Wells defended. 'You should be thankful, Mrs Chatterton,' Mrs Keeble interposed in a thin, high voice, 'that there are no longer any ol| those soup kitchens and charity bazaars, or she might spend all her time there, like my Grace and Jeannie did before they were married.'

Mrs Keeble was the wife of Old John Keeble, headmaster of Woodbury. Mrs Chatterton glanced absently at her nervous features, then, dismissing her, continued, 'I do wish Margot would hurry. She might consider me sometimes.' Margot, he thought, feeling his way back through dim years. Then every- thing sharpened, came into focus. He saw again a green trellis gate open and a little girl wearing a blue embroidered dress came through. She walked over to where he was sitting at the bottom of the kitchen steps. She was dragging behind

35 her a large wax sleeping doll, and each time its head bumped on the gravel its closed eyes flickered open. 'What is your name?' she demanded 'Ronny,' he replied. 'What's yours?' 'My name is Margot Chatterton.' Then she said suddenly, 'See that car. It belongs to my father. It's new. Father says that if things are as good next year we will have two. . . Have you got a car?' 'No.' .... 'Why doesn't your father buy one? Where is your father?' There were rapid footsteps on the drive and a voice called sharply, 'Margot, come here at once!' It was Mrs Chatterton. 'Haven't I told you to keep away from there?' In the afternoons after school he would sit by the window of the small back room that he shared with his mother, waiting till she could find a moment to slip in and get him something to eat. Sometimes, when there had been visitors, she would smuggle him in something special, such as a cream cake or a choco- late biscuit, which she would take out of a pocket in her black dress under her white apron. Often he would feel very lonely, waiting, feeling the faint pangs of hunger, listening to the subdued, conflicting noises of the big house. Jennings, the head gardener, would stop and talk to him when he was working nearby. Once he brought him an old cap gun that he had dug up down by the creek. Sometimes he would see Margot playing on the far lawn. He began to look forward to hearing her bright chatter when she bombarded the gardeners with excited ques- tions, or to watching her quick movements as she played with her toys. So that later there was always an emptiness when she was not there. One day she noticed him and she ran over to the window. When she smiled he could see how the freckles crinkled round her eyes. 'What school do you go to?' she asked. 'I'm going to school soon; to St Catherine's. Is that where you go?' 'No, I go to Marsh Street.' 'Oh.' For a moment she seriously traced with the toe of her shoe in the loose soil of the border garden. When she looked up she asked, 'Where is your mother?' 'She's busy.'

36 'I know something.' 'What?' 'I won't tell, see!' 'What is it, then?' The gardener told me.' 'Who, Jennings?' 'Yes.' A chair grateo d on the verandah and Mrs Chatterton called,' 'Margot.t> ' Margot turned and ran to where her mother was sitting, shaded from the sun by a rattan blind. 'If I have to tell you again—' 'Mother, mother. I know why the little boy hasn't got a father. It's because he was killed at the war.' 'Margot, go inside at once.' 'Mother, did my father go to the war? What is the war?' Mrs Chatterton stamped her foot, her voice broke shrilly, 'Margot! Do as I say, at once! And don't have so much to say for yourself!' Then it was Saturday, Margot's birthday. Watching Jennings set up the tables for the party by the fountain in the sunken garden, he remembered how the previous day he had leaned his matted, brown hairy arms over his shovel and said to his mother: 'It's a new country, gal. You don't have to depend upon anyone here, not like at home. You've been out here long enough to know that—plenty of opportunity! I'm old . . . doesn't matter, now.' As Mrs Johnston arranged the spread, he forgot about Jennings, he ceased to wonder why he often told his mother she shouldn't work there any longer. He couldn't look away from the tables. I here were plates of feathery cakes burst- ing with cream, frail white and pink meringues, chocolate cake, a variety of bis- cuits, some covered in coloured tinsel paper, and finally the birthday cake, en- crusted with icing, with five candles on the top. Mrs Chatterton came out when the games were finished and watched Mrs Johnston arrange the guests around the tables. The boys wore dark jackets and starched white collars; the girls, white silk dresses ,and most had bows in their hair. He leaned against the window sill, listening to Margot's voice, brighter and quicker, rising above the others. Then he saw that something was wrong. Margot had got down from her place at the top of the table and was shouting, 'I won't. I won't!' Mrs Chatterton moved toward her, but she turned and ran, stopping with her back to the pond. Her cheeks were flaming as she cried, 'I don't want to

37 sic next to Grace and Maurice! I want Ronny to be here. Ronny . . .' Mrs Chatterton tried to grasp her daughter's arm, but she jumped, evading the out- stretched hand, and stumbled against the low stone rim of the pond. For an instant Margot struggled to hold her balance, then all the children shrieked as she flopped backwards into the water. When he could bring himself to look again, Jennings had got Margot out of the pond, and Mrs Johnston was trying to get the tittering children back to the tables. Mrs Chatterton half led, half dragged her soaked, choking daughter over to the house. As they approached he moved back from the window into the shadows. His heart was racing and he felt sick, and somehow guilty.

Well, how does it feel to be back?' asked Old John Keeble, peering shrewdly down his long nose. 'It's rather early to say.' 'I suppose the old country has, well, as they seem to say nowadays, taken a pounding?' Then, scarcely allowing him to reply, Old John went on, 'I must say everyone over there stood up to it wonderfully. Plenty of spirit, eh, Flight Lieutenant? I'd like to go home again some day, just to have a look around. It's surprising how one becomes attached to this little country. I came out here 35 years ago, straight from Oxford. Never thought I would stay; there was so piuch I missed, the finer things. . . . One settles in, though, takes root. . . . It's comfortable here, that's it. . . .' He was aware of the keen gaze again. 'Now, let me see. . . . What year would you have been in?' 'I beg your—Oh, I see. I—I didn't go to college.' 'Oh; 'In fact we left the district a good many years ago,' he went on to explain. • 'But my mother was buried here when I was away.. Her first home in this country was here. That's the only reason I'm here now.' 'Lieutenant, you haven't had a thing to eat!' Mrs Wells interrupted. 'Caru 1 get you something? Another cup of tea, then?' 'No thank you.' Outside there was the sound of a car being braked sharply, and then the distant boom of a heavy door closing. Mrs Wells was speaking to him, but he could hear onlv the rhythm of her voice. Out of the corner of his eve he saw Mrs Chatterton leave the room. 'Yes,' he said, 'Yes,' struggling to regain the drift of the conversation. Then he heard Mrs Wells say, 'Oh, here's Margot. Now isn't she beautiful? Just like her mother used to be!'

38 Mrs Chatterton was crossing the room accompanied by a tall young woman. 'Isn't she beautiful?' Mrs Wells persisted. 'Yes . . . Yes, she is,' he said, feeling peculiarly weak. Then Mrs Chatterton was standing before him. 'Now, what is your name again?' He felt the blood rising in his face and he couldn't find words. Mrs Wells came to his rescue. 'Brent.' Mrs Chatterton repeated. "Of course, we were introduced. Flight Lieutenant Brent.' He was looking into a pair of clear, light eyes, and he felt his lips moving and heard a voice unlike his own acknowledging the introduction. The eyes smiled automatically, then flicked down to the decorations beneath his wings. 'Quite a collection!' Margot said, arching her eyebrows. 'Oh, those,' he said awkwardly. Then in a floundering attempt at humour, 'They gave them away. Must have had too many left over.' 'Will you have a cup of tea, dear?' Mrs Wells asked. Margot shook her head. 'What have you been doing, dear?' Mrs Wells asked. 'Nothing very interesting, I'm afraid,' Margot replied. When Mrs Wells was out of hearing, she turned back to him, saying, 'A cup of tea! Hell, a gin would be more like it. God, what a life. You can't even get anything decent to drink!' 'That's the hell of it,' he said. But she missed the irony of his tone. She was gazing around the room at each of the uniformed figures in turn. Finally she said, 'I suppose you're glad to be back.' Then unexpectedly, 'The roads are just dreadful nowadays. We went for a run out to Newhaven this afternoon and had to crawl all the way. Soon as the needle moved over fifty we got shaken to pieces. It was simply brutal!' 'I see,' he said. 'There was nothing to do when we go there. Sybil wanted to go in for a swim, but it was simply freezing. There's nothing to do anywhere these days, for that matter.' 'How about your Red Cross work?' 'Oh, that. It's only a few hours a week, and it's just about finished now, anyway. Mother wouldn't let me go into a hospital full time. Once I tried to get overseas. I was keen then. You know, Florence Nightingale and all that. But I never got an answer to my application. I think mother must have had something to do with that, too.' 'Margot,' Mrs Chatterton called.

39 'Margot.' An echo awoke in the past. There was a thud, thud of small feet in the passage, cnanging to a quick slap, slap on the boards, where the rugs ceased in the servants' quarters. Then small fists were beating against the door. His mother put down her darning and opened the door. Margot stood in the passage in her night gown. Her hair was damp and had just been combed, leaving the ends straight and spiked. 'I want to see Ronny,' she said. 'You'd better go back, Margot. Your mother will be angry,' his mother told her. 'Ronny,' Margot called. There were little points of light dancing in her eyes. When he moved up beside his mother, Margot bent down and grasped the hem of her night gown and pulled it up to her chin. 'See,' she squealed, 'I've just had a bath!' She stood with her feet planted apart and her toes turned in, revealing her body, still flushed from a brisk towelling. The points of light in her eyes were racing. Thenj she was stomping back along the passage, her excited laughter rising above the sound of her mother's voice.

'Margot,' Mrs Chatterton insisted. 'Yes mother.' "I want you to meet Flying Officer Grayson. Fie was at Woodbury with your cousin Roger.' 'A cigarette?' The curate held out a silver case. 'Thanks.' 'I was rather sore at missing out on the show,' the curate said. 'Actually, I was in camp for three months, but they turned me out. Apparently the old heart is not what it might be.' He tried to think of a reply, but his attention kept wandering. 'I don't think you missed much, really,' he said. He could hear Michael Grayson's lisping, 'Ve'y nice . . . Ve'y fine, indeed.' Good old Michael. One of the best, he thought. Margot was answering, her head tipped slightly to one side, a fixed social smile on her lips. Dressed in white, she appeared almost illuminated in the darkening room. His eyes lingered on her costume, shaped by her hips and the full thrust of her breasts. An image from the past returned, and thinking of how Margot had obviously forgotten it all, he smiled. Then he was shaking, struggling against a mounting desire to laugh. He held himself tight, aware that the curate was speaking again. 'It's possible you did more real good being out of it all,' he replied, noticing

40 that Margot had left Michael and was now standing with her mother. Her lips were moving and he tried to separate her voice from the surrounding conversa- tions. 'What I say is, where is all the money coming from?' 'So we had to stooge around until the pathfinders dropped their flares." '. . . . time they lifted petrol restrictions altogether.' 'Ve'y nice.' '. . . almost impossible to get servants. And you daren't say a word to them.' But Margot was talking in a low tone which did not reach him. Her head was slightly bowed, suddenly she seemed to him dispirited, subdued. Still talk- ing, she turned absently in his direction, and with a gathering shock he became aware of the change she had undergone. Her face, for a moment unprotected by its cultivated responses, was( empty. Her eyes were old and vacant. Their dancing animation that had been so much part of her memory was gone. The curate's voice brightened. 'You think so—?' He stopped, seeing the officer's changed expression. He was still looking at the delicate lifeless face, pain and anger mounting in him, spreading and choking. He gazed around the room, his anger giving way to dull wonder. 'I didn't realise ... I wouldn't have thought that even all this could have . . . ?' His voice trailed off. 'I beg your pardon.' The curate was looking at him anxiously. 'I didn't—' He made an effort to dismiss his thoughts. 'I didn't realise it was so late.' Mrs Wells turned to Mrs Keeble. 'What a pity the Flight Lieutenant has to leave so soon, he's awfully nice . . . What dear? Yes, that's him shaking hands with the mayor.' He paused at the door and glanced back into the room. Rex was speaking to an attentive group, illustrating his remarks with sweeping movements of his hands. Margot was walking with a studied flowing movement to where Alan was sitting alone. Her face was calm, imperious, bored. Mrs Chatterton rested her head against the back of her chair, her cheek bones prominent in the sunken flesh. As he watched, the white lids dropped for an instant over her eyes, like the blinking of an old harsh-voiced bird. The curate stood by the window, thoughtfully peering out into the thickening light, which was slowly blacking out the dying trees, the rotting leaves, the silent decay. He turned and stepped quickly out of the room. Mrs Wells' wide, moist eyes stared after him; but she could see only the light slipping backwards and

41 forwards on the swinging glass of the doors. 'War is dreadful,' she said. But Mrs Keeble had moved away, so she continued, speaking her thoughts aloud. 'He's been through so much. You can see it all in his face.'

—John reece cole.

FOUR POEMS BY KENDRICK SMITHYMAN

FIRST MEETING

When in the first meetings then, time closing like fist on pain, was first and was known and real, was the real meeting and the first?

Begun in beginnings all our means painful and new, tender to anger.

In some one meeting mating our desires like tendrils drew through a thin and wintry air mingling where we lay apart and were not what were named were our whole love, anticipating day and night then real and drew us through a drawn and winter air.

Begun, beginning, those were means final as flowers became our ends.

Timely the lost self was cast out wandering to be always set apart. In the curled smile of our caresses exile could be counted off and kisses sealed the way where we came in our own and you knew me, knowing I was known.

In what first meeting, the dove over the burdened city, the ending with the benevolent cloud descending. What dove, end or accident discover?

42 THE HANGING JUDGE

Speak of those facts which may concern us most, the simple anger rubbed up raw by love the birthday gift that never could arrive and all the nipples he had never pressed.

Speak of the scenes which only he had lived, the harsh demand, equivocal surrender, something like pain surrounded with the tender and frustrate hope he would not be deprived.

From these, not savagery, he had been made whose one communication was through pain. None more than he had suffered.

There was the fact they could not understand. Refused always, he looked for hurt again, and love was what he offered.

THE MIRROR PROSPECT

Within this glistening eye stand, stranger, the pupil of a sad moist terrifying world which may never be familiar or be trusted. Humiliation or some pain you may admit but not the last incongruous defeat nor confess the guilt which cried within your anger. The earth grew you first leaf-green has been soiled. Where lightly once you lay lies danger.

If you should speak, confessing who listens who has an ear for your speech but only those as powerless, stabbed by the same curt need to walk with honesty in their own eyes, certain of strength, of strength which stays imperative and measured in its term nor hastens beyond a scarifying censure into praise? Remember. Can you forget your world chastens?

43 Regard the watery eye. Outside always the rain falls and the leaves release the trees. They stand simple and bare where nothing is complicated seemingly in the season which moves toward the adult wishes of our separate loves. You will be student of this hurt, fluid world again. Deep in the wood the wounds of the aching wind are taken, lost, ending, never ending pain.

LANDSCAPE OF LOVE AND TIME Time in her maiden head sits attentive as a mirror or entering as a river threads landscape of her bed with a dew brightened aspect nor ever arbitrates upon her near and darkening prospect, but whiter winds between foreground and horizon.

The military powers displace familiar agencies of earth nnd gravely from the seaward capes westward turns the morning light upon each popular disgrace. The pitiably savage step and stagger and lie down at night. Time, entering, is white.

Now below my hands there lie warm peninsulas and bays while the cold winds blow without searching limits of my praise, Risen is what commends, and die the sycophant and enemies whose aggressive mouths must shout speech our indignant hearts deny blown by surprising gales of love from credible infirmity.

44 FRONT SEAT

lgH^M HE OTHER DAY I bumped into Bill. I'd come out of the F ^milk bar and was about to cross into the Square. Somebody thumped me on the back and I shot forward and almost tripped up an elderly lady. She gave me a dirty look. There aren't many fellows who have as heavy a hand as Bill. 'Well, if it isn't Merkovich,!' Bill looked pleased and his big toothy grin spread from ear to ear. Jenifer started calling me Merkovich and for some reason it just stuck. 'Still at the old game?' he said. 'Yes.' 'How's Grimbald, Walsh and the other mugs?' he said. Then he suggested we slip in and have a drink. And we went off and had a good yarn about the old days when Bill and I were doing a regular Christchurch to Nelson. Bill could tell a good yarn and his had grown hoary by this time. He wanted to know if old Peg-leg had hopped it yet. I said he hadn't. He remembered the red- headed girl who used to wave when we passed the store at Cheviot. He said he'd seen her in Christchurch, pretty down and out, and she hadn't even smiled. That was a grim story; I'd met her too, one day before she had the baby. Then Bill wanted to know if I remembered the time we took the kids from the Orphanage to Blenheim for a picnic and ended up making bows and arrows, and one kid in my team got Bill a corker in the arm. I hadn't blunted the arrow, and Bill had quite a stiff drive back to Kaikoura. Bill looked tired. He said he didn't like building; he missed the road. But there wasn't much h<- could do about it; his wife didn't like being left and there were four young children. Driving can be a lonely way to make a living. Then he said 'How's Jenifer?' I thought he'd say something and I just said 'It's through. She walked out.' Bill looked a bit red and didn't say anything more. Then I said I didn't have much time. Paterson was rather crook and I was taking over his loca1 this after- noon. To-morrow I had a tour. 'Who are the crowd?' Bill asked. 'Christchurch Art Circle,' I said. Bill grinned. 'You'll have a time,' he said. Then he remembered that he'd only come out for a couple of brushes and had to get back. We said 'So long,' and I walked round to the Depot.

45 Paterson's local was easy and I got back early, so I went to a show to fill in the evening. It wasn't much of a show.

Next morning at seven-fifteen I was back at the Depot and started checking in my passengers. There were three bus loads going; they looked a fair crowd. Some old, some young and a few stragglers. I had about an average load. One grey-headed lady hopped in and sat down in front while I was checking in the others. I told her that the earlier arrivals were entitled to the front seats. She froze up and said she got sick and that she always had to travel in the front. You could always pick the snags. I didn't argue. A middle-aged man with a slight stoop got in beside her. There were two girls who hadn't turned up; the other buses started, but No. 44 had to wait. They weren't very long, but the lug- gage took a while. They were both dark, but one was tall. The little one gave me a shy smile and said she was sorry but they'd missed the train. I didn't mind; my bus could easily make up the ten or twenty miles. The old ladv in the front sniffed and said that some people simply had no consideration for anyone else. The little dark one flushed and I gave her a bit of wink. She smiled again. t> 'Hold on, we're taking off,' I shouted and my passengers grinned. The old bus purred. The wheel spun round, but No. 44 didn't have to worry much about traffic; Colombo Street was pretty deserted. Saturday was a dead morning. We went up Victoria Street.

Hagley Park always looked great on these sharp mornings. The mist was almost up, and between the oak trunks it was yellow where the sun was through, but higher through the leaves it was still blue. I liked driving by the park. Later, when the mist was gone, the kids would collect and you could watch almost any game from cricket and polo to hockey, football, basketball or golf. The young kids would go along to watch their older brothers and sisters. It's a big place; you could keep on walking for hours. They have a great show when the daffodils are out. The place gets so packed with people watching the daffodils and talking and waiting to cross the river. You could spend half a day just watching, and watching the people talking, and talking to other people. The young kids like the yellow colour and when their parents are talking they run off and pick the daffodils. They've got a notice up to say you aren't supposed to touch them. I saw a display of begonias in Wellington last summer, but you can't beat the daffodils. When the summer is through Hagley Park changes colour. You can walk through the riding tracks and there are crunches under your feet all the time.

46 'Where do we stop for morning tea?' the old lady said. I looked up the schedule. 'Domett.' 'How far are we behind the other buses?' she asked. 'Couple of hours.' I thought I might as well give her something to chew. She looked at me as if she wasn't quite sure. She took out a paper bag from her basket and opened it. She started in on a biscuit. I took another look at my passengers; you have to be on the look-out; sometimes you get a squeamish one. They all looked pretty happy to me. The three ladies in the seat behind have hardly taken their eyes off their books the whole time. They've probably seen enough of the road; they look the travelled type. Two thin women in the third seat seem to be having a good nose at everybody. One of them is sizing me up; she probably thinks I can't see much. The two dark girls are chumming up with some boys. There is a couple sitting in the back. The girl is fair and very young. The man is tall. They are sitting close to one another and they don't do much talking; the girl is near the window. On the other side there is a girl with long brown hair. She is easy to look at; I noticed her when she came along. She got in and I didn't bother to check her off. The couple stared at her too. She seemed to know most of the crowd, but she didn't know the young couple. I wondered what this Art Circle was. I asked the man in the front seat. He had a look round. 'It's really a combined organisation, you know—Music, Arts, Painting and Literature.' I wondered what the old ladv did. She took out another biscuit. 'Feeling okay?' I said. 'I have to be very careful; anything might upset me,' she said. 'Sure.' I gave the man a wink. He almost grinned. No. 44 was feeling fine and we made up the hour. The other buses were still outside Domett when we pulled up. 'Ten minutes,' I said, but the old lady didn't get out when she found that morning tea was worth a bob.

They were a merry crowd, and one of the men from the other bus got up and started to call out their names and then they stood up and he introduced every- body like this. Except the old lady; her name must have been Mrs Cruelett. Most of the crowd from No. 44 kept together. The girl with the long brown hair was standing near the couple; the man said something to the little fair girl and then walked over to the table to get the tea. The one with the brown hair

47 started talking to the fair girl. The little girl laughed and when the man came back the three of them stayed together. The tea was nice and hot and the scones were hot too. We came out and piled into the bus again. The introductions had got them going and there was a lot of chatter now. The old lady had started in on some apples and the trio quit reading. The tall dark girl was watching the sea. The road hugged the coast after we passed Oaro. It was always very blue and cold; the waves kept coming in and breaking against the rocks. The Kai- kouras were stiff and pointed with the snow and packed high around the town. No. 44 liked to skim through these parts, but we had to stop for lunch. We were getting through pretty quickly; I didn't have any deliveries to make; it wasn't a regular. The sun was thin and the passengers stamped up and down the street, waiting for the bus, and I wasn't in any hurry to stretch the half-hour. We were off again. A sing-song started up and nearly everybody joined in. The old lady didn't eat any more apples and began to hum. The brown-headed girl had a nice voice; she could sing anything. The man kept looking at her. The little fair girl was watching the road. The goise was out and there were hedges of it for miles. The flower was yellow and heavy against the thick green spikes. It looked good against the sea. They were singing Ten Green Bottles and it took ages to get rid of them. Each one broke with a tinkle of the brown head's soprano. The crowd was thawing well; the man in the front seat began to talk. He wanted to know if I liked driving. I said I did. He said there was definitely something about it, of course, but he wouldn't like it. It would be monotonous, though it could be interesting; there would be so many types of passengers. He asked me if I were interested in Psychology. I said I wasn't. He said it would be interetsing for a Psychologist. I said a bus driver probably got told as much as any Doctor, Lawyer or Priest. He didn't say much more. The old lady said that it was very nice for me to be able to go on such lovely tours without having to pay anything. I just grinned at No. 44. After Seddon there was a drag on the back right and I go out to have a look. We had to go pretty slow; you can't take risks with a full load, and I told them I'd take the bus round to the garage while they were having afternoon tea. We'd probably be late. The old lady said they'd miss the launch and wouldn't get to the Portage in time for dinner. At Blenheim, Sharp and I fixed No. 44 up while the passengers had tea and gave the town the once-over. There wasn't much to see in Blenheim, except the war memorial. They were glad to get back into the bus. It didn't take us

48 MODELLED HEAD MOLLY MACALISTER long to reach Picton, but the others had been in about half an hour and the launch was waiting. I wasn't going over; I thought I'd stay in Picton and pick them up on Tuesday. I told the skipper. The old lady said she was sure the launch wasn't safe. Tom gave me a wink and helped her down. 'Mind the boards, lady,' he said, 'she's not as young as she used to be.' The little dark one get down and gave me a smile. 'Thanks,' she said, 'for wait- ing.' The young fair girl jumped down alone. The man was carrying three suit cases. The brown-haired girl hung back. She poked her shoe into the coil of rope and smiled. 'Good-bye, Merkovich,' she said, 'aren't you sorry you aren't coming too?' 'You haven't changed,' I said. Jenifer turned and jumped on to the deck of the launch. The boat chugged and drew out and into Queen Charlotte Sound. It got smaller and smaller. The dusk hung very closely and I went back to have a look at the bus.

j. b. raphael

VOX MEA AD DOMINUM

When I have sinned, O Lord, desert me not; leave me not subject to my body's rage.

Forgive me if sometimes no thought of Thee can hold me back from what I would not do, I cause Thee pain because of body's lust.

Why must I be a battle-field where soul and body, fire and turgid water war; the one to conquer, and the one to quench?

O Father, why art Thou so merciful that when I sin Thou seest it is my will that I should sin, and turn'st me not away?

Give ear to my repenting, lift my soul . . .

When I have sinned, O Lord, desert me not.

peter cape

49 FOUR POEMS BY LILY H. TROWERN

SAND EDGE

Painful to the unprepared ear As salt to a red lipped wound The gulls scream endlessly, Harsh as the crisp salt on the sand edge.

She turned the record and the music came: Sharply restrained the Spanish music. She stretched her arms and felt the tremor run Along the bone dome of her arching ribs, Her muscles tauten, and her thighs Spring ridges. She danced: Not with the feet, but with hands and arms, And tightened muscles, firmed Under the taut skin. Watching her there, who swayed To the mounting tempo of the passioned beat, Holding her head back on her shoulders To stretch one subtle line from breast to chin, Letting the springing hair swing heavily In one carved block of undulating metal, You would not have known with her black eyes on you That she was old. Only when the music stopped, And the gulls were heard again Wheeling in fragile strength Wingtip to wingtip, You saw the yielding langour of her flesh, And how her body sagged into unloveliness. Dancing: And eyes could follow endlessly The undulating metal of her hair, The curving line from breast to chin.

50 THRENODY: CLEAVE THOU TO POPLARS

He drew his breath and held it Feeling the aching muscles swell in his taut throat, And the cords lift to his shoulders. Feeling the tightness of diaphragm, and thighs That ridged to the spacing of his feet: And all the air was one long shuddering cry. i he a'r cried out when he went Down through the poplars, The singing poplars; Silver and green, blue-pierced were the poplars, Voices noon-drowsed vet lilting as they talked One with another: Sibilant sigh of waves backwardly crawling.

Cry, cry, call through the poplars, Call and cry daylong through the poplars, Arm-spread, face-high, scream through the poplars: The air goes sobbing.

Heat dance over the mudflats, Tide-bereft and squalid; How to imagine the sheened water covering Ooze and slime and naked things crawling? Death scent miasma over the mudflats. The first wave left its fellows And went Cat-footed over the mudflats, Silverly sighing up to the jetty, Paled at the moment snatching loss of chastity. Why through the mud, black and liquid, Tainted with dead fish and the rot of corruption, Why does the white heron go with virgin-cold feathers?

51 Cleave thou to poplars, to singing poplars, Hold them, trunk-embracing arms, Curved to the ht of the waist's denying yielding. Sky strikes like a sword through tne icave^ \ oiced leaves of the poplars, Asway to the seduction of wind: Silver and green, blue-pierced are the poplars, Voices noon-drowsed, vet lilting as they talk One with another: Sibilant sigh of waves backwardly crawling.

Carry me wind, wind with muscled shoulders, To call and cry, call, call, call, through the poplars, Depths of the poplars, Silver, blue depths, green as the evelids close on the depth ot evening: Cleave thou to poplars.

WHEEL

Out of the earth, out of the cold earth, Peer the dead, Eyeing with empty sockets The living Who know nothing (Crush the thought till it is nothing) Know nothing of them that rot in the cold earth. Out of the earth, out of the cold earth, The worms come, Sucking with soft viscous bodies ihe dead flesh: Wiping the desire from the grinning faces Of the breastless women, And the women and the men whose thighs are bone shafts Dryly clicking, Sink under the weight of the worms relentlessly sucking, Into the earth, the cold earth.

52 Sun on the bare brown bodies That lie on the beaches, Glide of hands over flesh that is fulsomely rounded, Laughter of men and women, Over the impotent desire of the dead That peer, Out of the earth, out of the cold earth.

DROUGHT

All day the magpies screamed harshly in the trees And called derisively across the burnt paddocks; All day the bluegums shimmered in the haze And cattle drooped listlessly, In their nostrils the yellow dust That the arid sluggish furnace-draught of wind Drew from the parched paddocks. And the brittle skeletons of the dead beasts From the unending years of drought Lay arrogantly about the iron pasture, Flaunting themselves in the heartbreak of the sunlight That made all things too clear.

The faces of the stockmen who sent the horses heavy-footed Over the unyielding echo of the earth, Struck in iron-travestied images, Smoothly shining under sweat rivers, And the iron of the faces was one with the iron of the sky, And the earth, And the iron scream of the magpies in the ironbarks.

53 LISTEN TO THE MOCKING BIRD

ONDAY MORNING. The week-end lay dead all over the town. I closed the door behind me. Blithely I descended to disaster and distrust. Stepping over the remnants of the gaiety not yet swept away I thrust my way into the inferno of the department store. My pockets were filled with books and tobacco and a hundred things I have now forgotten. To dun me for money is to drive me out. Bills are the white heralds of disaster. I was looking for a job. Monday morning. I wanted a smoke. Difficult to get these days, but I have a friend and he in turn has a friend. Believe in the brotherhood of man. My friend works in the department store.

—Hallo Paul. I haven't seen you in a long time. How are you? —I'm fair. And you? By the way don't you think I look like HeathclifTe this morning? You know it's surprising the real-life characters there are in the world. But how are you? —I'm alright thanks. —Seen any of the boys? But don't answer that: what do I want with the boys at this time of the morning. Got any smokes? —I'll have to see Archie. Not my counter you know. —Sure. Exaggerate inquiry and you've got diplomacy. I got some smokes in the finish. —Where are you off to at this time of day Paul? Life repeats itself. The indigestion of experience. My friend is called Ron. He works so hard I am almost ashamed of him, but they promote him every once in a while and that keeps his head a hat-fitting size at least. —I'm trying to arrange about a job, Ron. —What sort of job? —Something with a newspaper. The Courier if I can. Maybe book reviews or concert notes. Something like that. —Book reviews! Concert notes! —Well maybe not book reviews or concert notes, maybe proof reading or copy writing. I don't know yet. I've got an appointment for ten thirty. —It's ten thirty now. —Yair. I know. Round about is near enough. —Look, are you crazy or something? Don't you know what these roosters

54 are like. Punctuality, neatness, no unshaven characters need apply. —I've heard all that. —O.K. You're looking for the job, not me. —So what would you do? That was the beginning of the end. I wanted the job. So long as I had to work I was pretty keen it should be that job. I let Ron talk on. A gramo- phone needle caught in the one groove. Create an impression . . . create an impression . . . create an impression. Nudge the needle over; see what's on the rest of the record. Ron is well dressed. He wears check shifts and screaming ties. He pork- pies his hats and whistles Johnny Mercer tunes with all the discords in. His collars are stiff. His hair shines and stays stuck to the phrenological improba- bility of his head. He manicures. A half-moon on every nail. He doubles him- self over the glass-topped counter and puckers up with eagerness and attention. An impeccably-gowned jack knife murmuring: Yes, madam, may I help you? He reads Cassel's Guide to Better Salesmanship and The Key to Success in Business. I like him. And what a Sandow exerciser can do for underworked muscles!

Throughout the conversation Ron continued to serve his customers. I was woven into a cocoon of irrelevancies.—Yes madam, a sixteen collar a fifteen and a half neckband. —Not in black, sir. We can do beige, ox blood, sky blue, maroon, and navy, but not black, sir. —Now listen, Paul. Take those books out of your pocket and all those awful bulges out of your clothes. Leave everything here with me. Phone through to the editor of The Courier and postpone your appointment until three. He'll do it if you put it the right way. Anyway, make it sometime this afternoon. Then have a shave, a hair trim, shine your shoes, everything. I don't know what you can do about your collar though. It's rolled to hell at the corners. —Isn't this all rather extreme Ronald me boy? I'm only asking for a job. I don't want to marry his daughter. Some Chanel No. 5 on the corsage? —You do just as I say and I'll guarantee you'll get the job. It isn't as though you haven't the brains for it. —Well thanks. What's your clan again? Ranald of Clanranald? —Don't give it a thought. About that collar though ... I know, I'll lend you my Spiffy. —Your what?

55 —My Spiffy. —What the hell's that? —It's a gadget for keeping your collar points down. I always wear one. —You shouldn't tell. Maybe we looked ridiculous. Probaby something like an escaped freize, struggling over the bins of shirts and ties. Finally the Spiffy got into place. Then he worked a while at my tie. Magic fingers that boy had. —You're like a mother to me, Ron. —Kinder son. More tolerant. But you might even look respectable u hen you get cleaned up. You could wash your hands too. —What d'you mean, wash my hands? They aren't dirty. —No, I know that. But hands look better when they're clean. —Got any special soap? Lavender maybe? Or don't the best people use :cented soap? Tell me all chummie. —The skin specialist told me . . . —I don't want to hear it. I'm not interested in the human skin: only its thickness. —Happy Jack. You kill me. —Aah, give over. —Who started this? —Did you tart yourself up to get a job counterjumping? —Rather a stupid remark don't you think? I'm not playing the violin or anything. I can afford a haircut. I just take pains all the time. —How nice for you. Such a dominant character. I did all he said. Shave, haircut, shoe shine, wash, everything out of my pockets except my wallet. A light breeze would have blown me out of town. Not even a handkerchief to spoil the drape of my tweeds. Ron was quite happy when I showed again in the early afternoon. He'd been plugging for this for years. —Son, you're really smart. You look almost human. —Yair. Me and Humphrey Bogart. Nice that my .45 doesn't bulge on my hip, don't you think? —Did you change the appointment? —Three thirty. —Have you been drinking? —Why honey. I never knew you cared. —Have you?

56 —Two quick ones. Dutch courage. —Why don't you use your nut. You'd better take some of these Sweet- hearts. —More collar stiffeners? —No. They sweeten your breath. —One's breath. Don't let's get personal. —Nuts. —I've got it all worked out Ron. I can't waste all this pansying up. As I go into the editor's office I'll just whistle the melody from Schubert's Unfinished. Culture, you know. Or perhaps something from Carmen in a light Sweetheart falsetto. Or perhaps I could sort' of float in, rather gently, extend my fish- white and lemon-flavoured hand and bandy some Keats. Do you know any Keats? —You're a nut. Don't you want the job? —Sure. Very badly, in fact. But the preparations are a bit heavenly, aren't they? Does everyone do this to get a job? —They ought to. Make the best of yourself, I always say. —You do? How charming. —And no slang. Don't talk to the editor in slang. —Why? Is he a foreigner or something? But don't explain. I've read Fowler. I'll use the most impeccable English. Maybe some French. Ah, monsieur, she is keeding, non? After all I've seen Reginald Gardiner. I can even remember George Arliss. —Who cares about that? You better go now. Try and walk into his office right on the dot of three thirty. No sooner, no later. Punctuality. —Raise your right hand, repeat after me . . . Does Cassel say that? —How do you get like that? Cassel says nothing. I say it. —Why Mr Edward G. Robinson. Your accent's showing. —Nuts. —Well thanks. I'll get along. Wish me luck son. —Good luck Paul. —Thanks. II

I didn't get the job. I didn't even look like getting it. The editor saw me and folded up into a tight wad of politeness. Might have been awe. I wouldn't know. He should have patted mv hand. I addressed him almost in blank verse. I entered the office blithely, confidently, shining like a Hollywood knight. I sat

57 on the edge of the chair. I cocked my well-groomed head to every sentence. 1 didn't move an eyelid more than necessary. When my voice got hoarse I didn't even clear my throat. The clock on the wall said three thirty. Maybe he thought he was quizzing a bottle of lavender water. But I didn't get the job. Credentials? I covered the desk in papers. Levy book, driver's license, birth certificate, scholarship certificates, doctor's reports, union clearance, character re- ferences, references from previous employers, snapshots, club membership cards, every scrap of paper I possessed. I stood up very slowly and softly showered papers out of my wallet, out of my trouser cuffs, my shoes. Qualifications enough to print, edit and control the paper. Every one in town seemed to have sworn in writing that I was mal^ and blameless, honest, hard working, con- scientious, willing, competent, ambidexterous, a genius undiscovered, taking size seven shoes (broad toe), and in the habit of bathing quite regularly. No dice. I didn't get the job. The editorial office filled with gloom. The shadows of failure mounted up to the pendulum of the clock. I uncrossed my knees and levered myself back into the chair. The palms of my hands started to sweat. My handkerchief was at the department store. —I'm sorry Mr Blake, but that's the position. Your credentials are sound but we have no vacancy at the moment. However, if you like to put your name on the list together with other details . . . —And book reviewing . . . —Well that's only incidental really, Mr Blake, don't you think? The world news you know . . . How charmingly he smiled. Sunlight, porcelain, gold filling. —Sure. Thanks for seeing me.

Ill

—Well hallo Paul, how was it? You click alright? —No dice. I didn't get it. No vacancies, he said. Book reviewing only incidental, he said. Silence. —The world news you know. —Oh. —Anyway, thanks Ron. Something'll show. Sorry you had all that trouble for nothing. Only a momentary deflation. ^Sure that's O.K. Paul. About the trouble. No trouble really. Sorry it didn't come off.

58 How charmingly he smiled. —Here's your duffle. —Thanks. —And Paul . . . —Yair? —Could I have that Spiffy back? n.h.

Look Thy Last On All Things Lovely Every Hour

Domleo the butcher Shining in the sun, Gleaming like a round of beef: Day is well begun.

The gravy of high noon. Ladles on great dinners Perspiring late and soon Georgios Papoulos

The twinkling froth of stars. Draws for the evening schooner Behind a thousand bars Penniworth the tapster

O transient are tradesmen And they grow stale and cold, Lonely are the counters, Cartons green with mould;

So Ave atque Vale, Ere to Accounts ye go, Georgios Papoulos, Penniworth, Domleo!

s.m.

59 IHREE POEMS BY A. R. D. FAIRBURN

for an amulet

What truly is will have no end, although denied by friend or foe, and this I tell to foe and friend as onward to the grave we go. The candle in my little room gives light, but will not bake the host; I share my certainty with Hume, my candle with the Holy Ghost.

broadcasting

The swamp, you say, is stagnant and malarial, but hark! what skylark sings above this plain? Hyperion? No, ineffectual Ariel, pinnacled dim in the intense inane.

the power and the glory

Thf. road to the abode of the blest has for stones the broken bones of the best. The worst get there first and their nest is feathered with the feathers of the rest.

60 LUSCIOUS DAHLIAS

E WAS COMING down the road from the Post Office, carrying the mail. This time it was Marjorie who was with him and he wore battle dress. Last time he had been in gum boots and overalls and he had been talking to Joyce from the store. When he came near enough I heard him say: By Jove! It was a great sight. . . . And seeing me he saluted, but in a way as if he was making fun of himself: Hello Miss Robinson, how are the kids behaving? Still at the same game of trying to get somebody to go flatfishing with him. I used to get tired of him saying: By Jove what a night for flatfishing—if you have someone to go with. I nearly succumbed one of those really clear moon- light evenings. I nearly agreed to go. But in the end I refused. I could see myself sitting in the cold night listening to the stories I'd heard so often before— By Jingo! Poor Dick! There he was, wanting to go flatfishing with 'someone,' coddled by his three elder sisters, hating the ordinary farm life, always doing a little odd carpentering or painting. And growing dahlias—because the colours are so luscious, he said. There wasn't much chance of his getting anywhere. He might find a girl who would go as far as flatfishing with him. But when she came along to see the dahlias in the garden, Dick would be gently lifting the flowers to the sun, and the Misses Massey would be here and there in the garden and on the verandah. And he would go on telling his pointless stories. And the girl would leave the garden and everything. Then after a while Dick would start to go to the Post Office, walk on down to the store and ask a girl to go flatfishing. It became rather a joke. I thought he was quite nice —he had such a quiet voice. But from Mr Wood, my colleague at the Post Office, I got a different opinion. He was a proper he-man, Mr Wood. Dick! he would say, He's just lazy. That's all. Look at that heap of super that's been lying beside the road for six months. It should be taken away from them now that it's so scarce. Last Mondav Mr Wood was full of glee. You've heard what happened at the Masseys' on Saturday? You know Dick built a lavatory—excuse me men- tioning it—the hole wasn't deep enough. Of course it got blocked. Someone suggested putting a stick of geli down. Nothing happened. So Dick put three

61 sticks down and lit the fuse. Instead of making the hole bigger up came the stuff all over the house, the Misses Masseys' washing and over his dahlias. They spent all Sunday cleaning up the mess. That will teach him. 1 thought I could guess what he meant: teach that sissy a lesson. When Dick was called up, so Mr Wood reported, thel boys had said to him when he was leaving by the service car: Now's your chance to pick up a wife, Dick. The sisters looked sour. He was ill in camp, sick when he got to Egypt. When you met one of the sisters you would know how he was: bad, better, or worse. They were so proud of him. Everyone would hear all about what he wrote. I could almost hear the 'By Joves' and 'By Jingos.' And now he was back, invalided home, without a wife, still walking down to the Post Office and asking somebody to go flatfishing. I might go sometime. He's quite nice—he has such a quiet voice But there isn't much chance of his getting anywhere. He's still growing dahlias. I don't suppose there's anything else he could do. Especially not in a he- man country like this. w. o. droescher.

62 A UNIVERSITY PRIMER

The artist is free to choose anv degree of representational accuracy which suits the expression of his feeling. No single fact or set of facts can be held to be obligatory for artistic form . . . The greatest art seems to concern itself most with the universal aspects of natural form, to be the least preoccupied with particulars. The greatest artists appear to be most sensitive to those qualities of natural objects which are the least obvious in ordinary life precisely because, being common to all visible objects, they do not serve as marks of distinction or recognition. Roger Fry: Vision and Design. To say to the painter that nature is to be taken as she is, is to say to the player, that he may sit on the piano. James Whistler: The Gentle Art of Making Enemies. The only way of expressing emotion in the form of art is by finding an ' objective correlativein other words, a set of objects, a situation, a chain of events which shall be the formula of that particular emotion; such that when the external facts which must terminate in sensory experience are given, the emotion is immediately invoked. If you examine any of Shakespeare's more successful tragedies, you will find this exact equivalence;' you will find that the state of mind of Ladv Macbeth walking in her sleep has been communicated to you by a skilful accumulation of imagined sensory impressions; the words of Macbeth on hearing of his wife's death strike us as if, given the sequence of events, these words were automatically released bv the last event in the series. The artistic ' inevitability' lies in this complete adequacy of the external to the emotion. T. S. Eliot: Selected Essays (Hamlet). Art cannot be Midwife to Society. W. H. Auden: New Year Letter.

HIS ARTICLE is a naked statement of the assump- tions of the University scholar with an interest in the arts. It will accordingly appear platitudinous to many —and were school studies adequate it would not be necessary. But it is evident that there are many students of literature at this University who look upon their subject with the eye of a collector, picking up curiosities which have their value because they are far removed from the ordinary business of the world. This wedge between art and life can make it very difficult for the thoughtless student to defend himself when he is questioned 'What use is Greek?' or 'What use is English?' This essay is written for those who are not sure of the answer—and those, particularly (they are usually the questioners), who demand of a novel or a painting that it be photographic, never realising, evidently, that the truth an

63 artist feels compelled to record is of greater consequence than life itself. Foi art and life alike manifest, according to their nature, some force—X, or the un- known, if you wish—behind the world. 1 he peculiar distinction of the artiit is that the form of things moves him to his statement of their es ential qualities: the pleasure he gets from the transient world about him makes him wish to see the essential shape of things in perfect harmony with the essence of the world, with 'the life spirit.'

The 'life spirit' is a vague and anonymous term for a very intimate idea iVian cannot exercise his distinctive rational faculty without wondering, sooner or later, why he came to be here, and what he may hope for after death. There is much which neither his senses nor his intellect can tell him, the !.iikjiu»,u elements which he identifies in spiritual or material terms according to the tem- perament of his age. His rational faculty disposes him to regard the universe ai a system which, if not completely discoverable, may at least yield up many of its scacts to a rational, systematic approach. He assumes that the presiding genius is a harmonising force—and this at least gives some direction to his under- standing. For it means that the unknown will hold no violent contradictions to the known, that what is hidden will be consistent with what is displayed, that each new impression will make some response to the findings of past experience, that what has happened in the past will happen again in the future. Destiny then is rhythmical; and it is the work of the artist to construct systems which keep in time with fate. For a man to feel that a great truth is being expressed he must be impressed by the fateful rhythm of the art pattern before him— which means that he regards the action as following an inevitable sequence so that each stroke can fall only where it does. In terms of literature this is illus- trated by the nature of the appeal that true comedy and tragedy make to us. Both observe how life falls short of the ideal, and both report on this failure, the report being tragic or comic as it moves you or makes you think. It is a dis- covery which reaches us intimately, drawing from us a sense of kinship with the characters, for we, too, are acutely aware of this dichotomy between life as it is. and life as it should be. All man's higher activities are directed—perhaps not consciously—toward an understanding of his destiny, a reconciliation between what he hopes for and what he gets. The terms, comedy, tragedv, are abstrac- tions which make rather more obvious than life the fretted emotional currents of a poem, a painting or a piece of music. These emotions represent the artist's standing with Fate—reconciliation through the bloom of a rose, despair with the end of Jude, energy and courage with Van Gogh in a cornfield, a confidence

64 ORCHARD STREET Oil Painting by A. L. TREADWELL in the civilised virtues with Marvell. These emotions will, of course, be extremely varied. When we recognise the characteristic stand of an artist we label him romantic, realistic, classical, as we find that he denies the real for the ideal; faces the real squarely and without consolations'; strikes a balance between the real and the ideal. This is not to suggest that the artist is governed by philosophy in his work, but rather that he shares with all men a wish to understand the 'life spirit,' and to appreciate those qualities which are identical with it and those' which are different. It is his peculiar fortune that he conceives this*, spirit in physical terms, having a sensuous as well as an intellectual regard for 'it.

Whatever his religious scruples may be, man's immediate knowledge does not exceed the simple but fundamental statement of Zeno: If things are a many they must be both like and unlike.' He has greatly developed hijj powers of association and comparison, bringing together like and like, and distinguishing them both from the unlike with ever greater facility, but beyond the funda- mental laws of association, of identity and difference, sameness and variety, motion and rest, of the constant and the ephemeral, the essential and the acci- dental, he has made no advance. He knows that there is a part of life which endures and a part which decays. The one he calls essential, identifying it with the essence of the world, the other accidental, indicating those things which die through want of a continued intercourse with the life-giving spirit. Upon reflec- tion he sees the need for relating himself to that which is essential lest he too perish with that which passes away. Beneath art, beneath all religions and all philosophies is this organic principle of life, the instinct of self-preservation, the wish to find the identity of things, and to respect their differences. The artist, as a highly sensitive man, feels the more keenly a need to go beneath the 'perpetual flux' of things, and read from his experience the identity of the world.

Identity and difference may be seen in a good many colours—the view from a sea cliff a clear instance of them. Above you the clouds are on the move, obeying a wind which is also on the waters. For a time everything appears in a state of flux, sea and sky change shape ceaselessly; nothing endures. But even as the impression grows you become aware of a pattern in your mind, a pattern which forms somewhere between the insistent movement of the day and your sympathy with it. Following a hundred shades of blue you reach the very 'idea' of blue—the quality of blueness—and you meet the essential shape and colour of the hills, seen through a hundred bustling, wind-blown impressions, until the pattern asserts itself, and all the different movements of the afternoon

65 are seen to revolve about their several points. There is, after all, a 'still centre' to the 'turning world.' The artist, like the thoughtful man, observes the identities and the differ- ences in his subject. His regard for particular things preserves him from becom- ing a slave to an abstract ideal, an anonymous perfection; but in his devotion to form he is a student of Truth, his integrity in expressing delicate and fugitive details being evidence of his study. This observance of the one end, the appre- hension of Truth, disposes him to sec and feel all things in one—-to see

A world in a grain of sand and a heaven in a wild flower. The artist's vision is stereoscopic, for he is not limited to the earthly dimen- sions which he observes, but sees them in relation to something beyond. William Blake wrote of Chaucer that 'he is the great poetical observer of men, who in every age is born to record and eternise its acts. This he does as a master, as a father and superior, who looks down on their little follies from the Emperor to the Miller, sometimes with severity, oftener with joke and sport.' Chaucer's humour is evidence of the artist's position as a middleman between the real and the ideal. His characters are humorous where they act unreason- ably, where they push past the sane world of middle comedy in pursuit of their own extreme pleasures. For Chaucer draws fron> them the essential qualities which man shares not only with man but with whatever is durable and universal in this world. And, having raised us to a view of the ideal, he shows us how man denies his fellowship with man, how he cuts himself off from him, exploits him, and cheats him, and bullies him, denies the one great identity and proposes a thousand little differences which appear to us petty and ridiculous from the superior view which Chaucer has given us. The humour, then, is on two levels. In the Parliament of Fowls, for example, there is the level of the actual debate— 'Lo, here a parfit resoun of a goose!'—the level on which we laugh because we are in with the smart set. And there is, too, the much higher level from which we look down at the smart set against a wider background and smile at the little- ness of the courtly dilettantes scoring their points and smirking with satisfaction that 'things should be thus rather than thus.' It is the mirth which the Gods must feel at the political wrangles of men. This dichotomy between romance and realism could be shown humorously for the universals and the certainties of mediaeval thought were still valid, strained indeed, but still able to reconcile the inconsistencies and the contradictions un- covered by the close student of life. The relentless, inquiring spirit of the Rena- scence, with its hatred of shams and hypocrisy, was two centuries away, and man

66 sure enough of the 'identities' not to be disturbed over much by the 'differences.' After the first conviction of his creed is forgotten, and man's thought has shaken C* O down into a placid and habitual regard for it, a lyrical passion is rare, for enthu- siasms are disorderly, and upset carefully constructed systems. In any case when the whole is known already, the parts do not present a motive for intense lyrical feeling. In another spiritual climate the temperature of the poetry is very different indeed. Mediaeval universals could sustain the evident dualism in courtly love: John Donne, haunted by uncertainty, fcrevcr sought to reconcile the two jarring and contrary notes of love that were 'beating' through Elizabethan thought. The 'differences' were thrusting through his world, and man was forced to snatch truth where he could. For when the common things of life give him no comfort and no certainty he is driven into the dark corners of his experience to discover what he can. The parallel between Donne's age and our own is too evident to be laboured here: what should be understood is that nothing is intrin- sically valid or invalid as material for the artist. His search is for truth, and he uses what he can to guide him. In art, then, it matters not a jot what is expressed: the distinctive mark of the artist is the way in which he expresses it. He arranges forms, shapes and colours in' a pattern which has a significance independent of anything that they may represent; it has a rhythm and an existence of its own so that, if the human figure is presented, it is proportioned as the rhythm of the pattern may demand, and with only an indirect reference to the human figures of our experience. This is not easily realised. It happens that of the five arts poetry, painting and sculp- ture are chiefly representational; whichj means that the artist is using material intelligible to the intellect of his audience. As a result its members are liable to proclaim a mistaken identity between life and truth, demanding of the artist that his painting be as exact a copy as possible of the articles of their experience. They do not realise that art, like religion, expresses an inner craving for truth. It exists at all precisely because there is a side to man which life alone cannot satisfy—so that what the artist constructs to satisfy that craving will have only a secondary relation to life. It is, least of all, a copy. For a copy is limited to a particular time and a particular place: it portrays a subject} not because that subject is inevitably and universally so, but only because the artist happened to see it. Its kinship is not with a hundred like situations in which man finds himself, but with one situation only which we have on the author's evidence. The text of Doctor Faustus is an interesting blend of formal and representa- tional elements. The humorous interludes are situation-comedy: they represent

67 life a little out of focus, amusing; in then caricature of what we recognise to be the proper order of things. Events arc humorous because they are unnatural by realistic standards, and differ from our experience. But the tragic scenes— further removed though thcv are from the earthly current—are not only con- vincing, but remind u.; painfully of our kinship with the sufferer. We know that a suitable medium ha; been found to express a tragic fact very near to the human spirit. We have the same feeling in the realistic film, Mine Oiun Execu- tioner, when a .ceif-t rrncr.tcci character stands on the edge of a roof manv, many storeys from the ground; and there, too, hanging grimly to the top of a ladder, is the man who has tried to understand him. Considered representationally, it is absurd, and yet, by a higher criterion, it is one of the most convincing film episodes I have ever seen—poor iittle humanity up on the roof trying desper-. ately to understand itself from a ladder poised precariously near by. Beside this setting J. L. David's painting, The Rape of the Sabines, has no validity outside its own existence. It is true because for one man things were once thus—and not because we recognise the situation, aware that we 'have the root of the matter in us.' David's historical vision was a fixed and static one: and here he has not brought out the perpetual flow of things which would give to his subject the validity, not of a moment, but of all time.

It is easy indeed to build a regard for art on false premises. It appeals to so many of our faculties and our emotions that we may well confuse interest with appreciation, and, wrongly grounded, wonder at our want of interest when the art form is more abstract. The remark I heard passed of a ballerina, that she was so attractive a dancer because of her features, is an extreme instance of this misunderstanding. Its author probably 'loved' Peter and the Wolf but was bored with Les Sylphides. In ballet, most of all the arts, the medium must be an impersonal one. For three-dimensional movement of the human figure invokes automatically our knowledge of the human figure and its actions. If we look for facial expression, it is to forget that anything the ballerina may represent for us should come through the pattern of the dance. She is first, a symbol in a sequence of movements, and only in the secondary, and non-artistic sense, a woman.

To the question, 'what use is art?' the answer, I suppose, is to counter with 'what use is life?' The one question is no more sensible than the other. We have found that it is the distinctive function of man to attempt to understand the relations governing his life; and the peculiar function, of the artist, as highly articulate man, to bring out these relations in their most transparent form, freed

68 from all those inconsistencies and accidental properties which obscure truth in our lives. For, unlike the philosopher, the artist is master of his material, and may attain to the consistency which is but imperfectly present in the 'real' world. He tries to ensure that there are no accidental notes to mar the harmony; th(e sequence of sounds should appear an audible form of truth. If art has a 'use,' it is the use also of life: it teaches us to wonder at things, to reverence the human spirit and its affinities—so that even when we can least understand Fate— as in Hamlet and Lear—-we honour her, reminded that man comes of a noble house.

tom wells

love of two hands

never two hands were such clouds rolling round me, wrapping, dropping like a good fence between the child and strangers, hawkers, black dangerous men ranging beyond the safe lawn.

never were such hands warmer, touching away the city hardness from the liv.ing face beneath, like rain melting the summer's veneer o to a green flowing.

never were hands more music in the fragmentary night, bringing people to the academic tower, brittle as a lighthouse, sea-locked like a tall empty Ark wrecked on birdless rocks.

keith sinclair

69 FOUR POEMS BY DENIS GLOVER

MY COUNTRY, O MY COUNTRY

A land of Civil Servants, Chief Inspectors, Direct Controllers, indirect Directors, Admonishers, Exhorters and Correctors.

Is this my country, this the happy place That filched the honest candour from my face?

S U N S E T

The river slower moved And birds were still.

Leaf and tree in waiting silence hung o o Breathless on the plunging sun.

Now came still evening on, And suddenly the park was full of pedals, sings Harry.

THE HARBOUR

Wrapped in the sea's wet shroud What land can sing aloud A casual song? But the sea rolls on, sanq Harry, O J And hand on hips Watched the departing ships.

ROLL ON

What are the Wild Waves Saying—Coleridge Taylor, You should have gone to sea and asked a sailor, Instead of writing seaside annotations On ocean's own enigma variations.

70 two STORIES ABOUT A FRIEND

O YOU NOTICE how hairy the legs of certain women are? It's really remarkable—all the progress of civilisation-can't hide it. It fascinates some people; others, perhaps of artistic temperament, find the unnecessary foliage distasteful. That's where Sammy comes in. He lives in the flat above me —he used to, I mean. I guess he was just too sensitive aesthetically for this capi- talistic society. One day Sammy met a girl. True, he'd met girls before, but never before had he realised the beauty of love. It was blitz-love. He walked around like a man in a sandstorm. Her smile was like Mona Lisa. Sammy compared her hair to cloth of gold and her lips to rubies, her teeth were pearls and her hands ivory. She seemed a pretty pricy dame to me. I asked Sammy how he managed to afford such luxury. But he didn't hear me, he was murmuring a piece about Cleopatra and a golden barge. Then they were married. It was real love, you could tell that by the gentle loving light shining from their eyes. It made me feel sad to see them—I felt so old. I felt I had the wrong approach, that I'd never amount to anything. It was through knowing nothing about aesthetics. Sammy and his bride settled down in their little love-nest—it was the most aesthetic little flat you could imagine. There were pieces of chromium plate everywhere and an exceptionally aesthetic lamp shade from the chain store down the road. In these surroundings Sammy and his wife cooed loving bird talk to each other. I felt so sad, so lonelv that I had to buy a pair of love birds to help me along. But it didn't last. Sammy and I work at the same factory, there being only a nut between us on an automobile assembly belt at Petone. It was there that I heard about it. Sammy leant over his chassis and said to me, 'My wife's got hairy legs.' How would you answer a thing like that? I let it pass, I tightened another nut. So he said it again. 'Fancy that,' I said. 'She's more like a palaeolithic than the Venus de Milo from the thighs down,' he said. 'It doesn't matter, does it?' I said. 'Don't look that way.'

71 Sammy groaned. 'It's too late now,' lie said. 'Too late. I can't bear it. It's horrible. It's killing my soul.' I could see his point. I sympathised. That beautiful little Hat, so artistic. And his wife making her silk stockings look like coconut matting. o o o That night while I was feeding my love birds there was activity upstairs. There was more of it, furniture seemed to suffer, there were dull thuds, silence, and then piercing screams as though a fire engine was going past but never get- ting there. So I went upstairs having nothing better to do. Looking in from the doorway I saw that Sammy had his wife's legs over his knee, and that he was pulling out the foliage one at a time with a, pair of tweezers. And what foliage! It would have made several rope ladders tor the stars. She should have been a wig-making establishment. When she raised her head Sammy gave her a back-hander across the face. 'Down bitch,' he was saying. 'Betrayer. Murderess of my soul.' Taking a look at me as I made my mind up he said, 'Purification! Purifi- cation! That which was as black as sin shall be as white as snow.' I made my mind up. I went downstairs again and fed my love birds—-to the cat. Love, I decided, was better off without me. About two months later Sammy got a divorce. It was mental cruelty, he told me. He told me how he had suffered, that the tortures of a sensitive spirit were like, etc. I was impressed.

# # #

It was some time after that before Sammy's sensitive soul had healed. He told me it was like the bruised petals of a (lower. It was dreadful, he said, what he had gone through, only a fine spirit like his could have survived such agonj. By the way he said, who is the blonde in the bottom flat? It was wonderful how after his terrible ordeal he still had the strength to notice blondes. 'She only arrived yesterday,' I said. I went back to my room again, then I decided that perhaps I might go down to the library and read about aesthetics. Going out I passed the blonde. She seemed curious. She stopped me and said, 'Who's the pansy in the top flat?' 'Where?' I said, interested. 'Upstairs,' she said. 'You mean Sammv,' I said. 'Sammy O'Keefe. He's very sensitive to things said about him. I don't think he'd like being called a pansy. He's aesthetic.'

72 'Isn't he a pansy, then?' insisted the blonde. 'I wouldn't know,' I said. 'I'm afraid that I'll have to be getting along now. I have an important engagement with the Prime Minister.' The blonde bent down to adjust her shoe. 'I'd like to meet him,' she said. 'I'll have to be going,' I said. 'I'm sorry. The Prime Minister doesn't like to be kept waiting.' The blonde lifted her skirt to tighten a stocking. 'Is he there now?' she

I felt the need of aesthetic guidance urgently. 'Good-bye,' I said. The next day was Saturday and Sammy came to see me. His eyes were shining and he had the look of one resurrected. 'My boy,' he said. 'Isn't she wonderful?' 'Who,' I said. 'Why—Isabel. The girl with hair the colour of ripe corn, the body of a Rubens nude.' 'You mean the blonde?' I said. 'The girl with eyes of aquamarine, with feet like a gazelle. And her lips! Lips like poppies with a fascination more potent than opium.' 'She works in the ticket office of the Coliseum,' I said. 'That continuous joint down Taranaki Street.' 'Where?' he said absently, he was drowned in his new passion. 'At the Coliseum,' I said. 'Sadie told me.' 'We are going to be married,' said Sammy. 'It is inevitable. It is the true mating of twin souls. Again my life will have meaning and dynamic driving force. Beauty is filling my soul like the overflowing of fragrant incense from an alabaster cup.' 'I wouldn't call her that, exactly,' I said. 'I must sacrifice my whole being in the white flame of love," said Sammy. It was wonderful how he had the strength to keep trying. Such great faith in love and blondes—-that's aesthetics for you, faith. I guess Sammy needed all that though. To me the blonde loked like she knew what she wanted and that was all she was having. They were married in a little church decorated with arum lilies. Everything was beautiful after that until one night when Sammy was out late and the blonde came and stood in my doorway. It disturbed me. There was the blonde swaying in the doorway and exhibiting her curves.

73 'Come on up and take a look at our bedroom suite,' she said. 'It's swell—I chose it.' 'I'm sorry,' I said. 'I have a date. This is the night I dine with the Governor-General. He hates me to be late.' The blonde touched her hair with her hand the way the movie! stars do. I'm lonely,' she said. 'I'm scared by myself.' I was thinking how scared I was. But what can a man do? I didn't know any aesthetics—I didn't know the answers. 'We'll have to make it snappy,' I said. But the next day I got hold of Sammy. "Look,' I said, 'that blonde of yours. Keep her controlled or I'll have to shift.' Sammy was looking exhausted. 'I do my best,' he said, but I feel now that my love for Isabel is too fine a thing. She doesn't understand me. Her desires are too carnal. I try to uplift her spirit, but all she says is how about a bit of bed. She will drag me down to her level, I fear. How difficult it is to love cleanly, finely, with the spirit.' 'Never mind, Sammy,' I said. 'It must be wonderful to have a sensitive beautiful spirit like yours.'

But it wasn't long before the blonde and Sammy were fighting regularly. The blonde spent all Sammy's money on unaesthetic furniturei and bleaching agents to keep her hair the way it was. Sammy would plead with her for beauty in the home and explain about the effect of mass production on the sensitive mind. But the blonde just wouldn't see it his way—she got to throwing things. Sammy was looking dreadful, his nerves were shot to pieces. Then he passed me on the stairs one night. There was whisky on his breath and he staggered a little. I hadn't been in my room long when the most piercing screams began. His- tory, I thought, has doubled back. The blonde is getting what comes to her. But the screams continued, coming out like air under pressure from a sewer. So I investigated. It was practically the last I ever saw of Sammy. Afterwards they took him away. He had the blonde's legs tied together with a sheet, with one hand he held the blonde down on the table, and he was waving a serrated bread knife covered with blood. He looked at me triumphantly as I stood in the doorwav. 'She fights so much,' he shouted, 'I'm making a blasted Amazon of her.' The blonde was screaming blue murder. g. r. gilbert

74 Song of the Dry Orange Tree

Woodcutter: Cut my shadow. Deliver me from the torture Of seeing myself without oranges.

Why was I born between mirrors? The day turns round me And the night copies me In all her stars.

I wish to live without seeing myself. Then ants and thistledowns May dream they are My leaves and my birds.

Woodcutter:

75 SUNBROWN

N SOLITARY POSITION, posed among grassgreen and treegreen, lean- ing, he lay. Brown skin of suntan,' shore stubble of chin, and a half- burned cigarette. Sweat gathered on his upper lip. Near him a dog lay, panting in the sunheat and still air. At the fence far down the green- stretched paddock a horse stood, hipshot, flicking its coarse tail. The road was visible: a car, and two people walking: heat shimmering on the bitumen: dust, drydust, grey and choking. He felt an absence of any thought, and a combined hatred and laziness, vague and impersonal. Two threads of feeling twisted together like rope strands. It was pleasant. The grass was cool. He chewed a thick sapstalk, with the dog bellied down at his heels, and scratching with a vigorous hind paw. A brown bitch, part cattle dog and parts of half a dozen other breeds about the farm. He kicked her away to a distance, her unwashed smell repugnant and strong over the grass smell, and her buzz-company of flies annoying him. She moved, her wet bitcheyes questioning, and flopped again, scratching. He rolled on to his back to stare at the sky, the sun warm and bright on his face and small grass adhering to his naked chest. His trousers and shirt were bundled beneath his head. The hours of afternoon were going and he waited for the metal-banging signal to call him into the cowshed and the shadowcool, oilsmelling separator room. Into the faint smell of curdled cream ,and the acid tang of dung, wind- drifting from the cowyard. There would be nothing in town for this evening, sundaydreary. Undismayed at the sound of her girl-voice he rolled over on to his stomach. She was blushing. She eyed him and glanced away, then looked at his body again. —I came to join you but I hardly can when you're naked, can I? Join, he thought, join. Connubial conjunction of me and me and me-she. The rolltop-stocking-top can-can or the workers' mazurka from Eltarsenboosh. A pre-thought recalled, recollected, with the aid of a word disunited and disparate. The dog-and-the-bone activity of one word on the mnemotechny. —I don't know, you could. Clothes aren't necessary in this weather. You could take yours off and lie here, too. He watched the abating blush surge again, bending his head back to look from the grasslevel. She looked beyond him down the paddock. He chanted, watching her face,

76 Oh Nell I love your skin so clear Your lips, your eyes and hair and there, and stopped when he saw she wasn't getting it. That will be one for her and her bitching mother, he thought. Bach-bitch the baker is dead. Pity she missed it. Dirty, I suppose; mitigated in part with the sharp scintillation of a muckbright wit. She buggared him and went, stepping high over the long grass, her green dress standing out from the grassgreen. d o O Before she had passed from the stare of his watching eyes the bangclanging sound jarred across the paddock, and he jerked his trousers over his feet and over his hips. Greyblack dungarees that reached to the calves of his legs and frayed into a thread fringe. Swinging his shirt in his hand he lounged off, sun and muscle-shadow on his back and the fly-tormented bitch in tongue-lolling move- ment behind him. Might do for a douse in the creek before the cows are in. Get rid of some of this sweat and sticky grass. He shouted at the bitchdog and she stumbled into a fast walk then circled away, running with sharp, even speed toward the cowshed. At the creek he stood on the bank and slipped his trousers casually, and then dived through the sunlight into the water. He scrubbed the water into his face when he broke the surface, threshing, feeling the bristle scrape under his hand and a clean sting in his skin. Then he climbed out and started at a run, limberly moving, over the field. Almost at the cowshed he stopped and pulled his shirt and trousers over his drying body and flicked the water from his hair. She was in the cowshed when he got there and he grinned at her, showing his teeth, with the darkline of stubble shadowcolouring his short, upper lip. Her brickred farmfingers jetted the milk into the enamel pail with a forceful, wet squirting sound. The—psurrt-psurrt—of the milkstreams carried its even rhythm into his ears. He stared at her neat, tightcurled head. —Sunworship. A good, healthy, material religion, don't you think? Some- thing to show for it all, too. His suntan. It covered him. Tanbrown and healthy and loosely vigorous he moved across the yard, under but not in his clothes, scarecrow-tattered. * He sat on the milking stool with his short, crisp hair against the mottle-colour of the cow's hide, his knees braced about the bucket and his feet spread on the concrete floor. And watching him she thought, the pagan thing. The pagan thing. Oh

77 Nell I love you skin so clear and he's almost naked all day, all summer. Not much milk, drying off I suppose. Makes it easier around this time, pooh, my clothes are just sticking to me. Hot. And he thinks nothing of it. His body looked good lying there. Brown all over, and he undresses again at the creek, not caring if anyone is looking and then runs across the grass until he's dry, most of the day getting in or out of his clothes. Proud, that's what he is, bodv proud. But you have to give in to him he's so natural not doing it just to show off or be dirty or anything. Fancy telling me that stupid poetry, it's the I r .t time he's ever done that. Quick, this one. He's taking it easy now the hay's in. l he baildoors slammed behind the last of the slow-ambling cows and they rose from the milkstools and commenced to run the vatted milk through the nandturned separator, the blue-white milk and the heavy cream flowing from the twin spouts into the cans. And then, together, they washed and swept the yard. An afternoon breeze puffed the loose dust from the dry ground and leafstirred the trees near the shed. At the fence the drinking trough spilled a fine spray into the air and wavepatterns rippled the dull surface. When they were finished he climbed through the yardrails and went back to the creek. The water was cold and he swam the length of the pool and climbed out, using his shirt to dry himself. Whistling, he washed at the sink in the farmhouse, scrubbing his fingers and watching the water cloud and whiten with the milk that had dried on his skin. She felt him laughing at her all through the meal and, determined, she kept her head bent. He ignored her mother or said frankly careless things, tell- ing her how her daughter had walked up on him and him sunbathing, naked. He softbreathed the last word and went—tchh—with his tongue and laughed at them both, tapping his plate with his fork. And on the way to his room he patted the mother familiarly as he passed. She was a big woman, healthy- handsome, and darker in complexion than her daughter, with sloedark eyes and a clean, italian face. Neither of the women objected and he was laughing again.

He came out in a pair of grey slacks and a vivid flower-patterned shirt, pair of open sandals on his feet. While drying the dishes he involved the mother in a laughing conversation, calling her madre mia and bowing to her. The mother sat at the kitchentable darning a pair of stockings and looking at him. Smiling and thinking. Thinking, look at him. There's Jean, so struck on him she can hardly keep it from popping out her eyes. Look at him. Like a clown, I wish it had been

73 me that saw him in the grass this afternoon instead of . . . blasted stockings are all holes about time I went into town again. He's clever too, I suppose, but usually he manages to convince you you should all live together in the summer, willy-nilly, without clothes so the skin pores can breathe. He's as brown as a Maori. Too healthy Jean had better watch herself. And he sleeps all night on the verandah without anv shelter, just lying there with the breeze and the night and that stinking dog asleep on the steps. What's their little secret joke I wonder. Look at him. Not so good with your husband dead now for five years, five or is it six? no, six on the tenth of March. Only a door between him and me, patting my bottom as if he meant it and calling me madre mia because I happened to let out one day that I was born in Italy. Look at him. Pavia, I said and he said north? and I said yes, the Lombardy plains ,and he said do you know the lan- guage, have you been out here long and I said I came out when I was eighteen, I've been here twenty-three years, and his brain starts to work totting up how old I am. There that's one done the other one's better. He rattled some change in his pocket and looked at Jean. —I'm going into town for some tobacco, coming? We can get a drink if you like, and some chocolates for your mother. Jean looked to her mother for assent and, receiving a nod, slopped across the kitchen in her loose slippers, toward her bedroom. He leaned against the bench, waiting. When she returned he held open the door and they went out, laugh- ing together.

Her eyes watched them go and she blinked when the door slammed shut behind them. They would probably go by the shortcut across the end of the farm to get into town and come back up the creekpasture. In town they went to the milkbar, past the crowd of boys outside the billiard- room and past the crowd emptying from the theatre. Half-time and icecream and bottles of gaseous, brightlabel softdrinks, the people crushed into the tiny con- fectionery shop or gathered in lax groups about the filmboards to find conver- sation and fend off words for the globelit minutes. Jean, discomfited with the stares and sharply conscious of his hand at her elbow and the brilliance of his shirt, edged to the rim of the pavement. He walked at her side staring, smiling at the crowd, not aware of any discomfort, but sensing her embarrassment and talking to ease it. Don't give it a thought, Jean. We'll go in here: this place sells cigarettes, along with milk and bread and stuff. Under the counter trade, p

79 Then he wlas laughing with the woman behind the counter. Just like a great clown, she thought. On the way back to the farmhouse they entered the creekpasture and walked along the bank of the creek, quietly. She liked it here. Dark, with the moon just starting to show, the smell of summer and the bushsmell from the manuka around the stream. Under her light courtshoes the grass was soft and turf-resilient. And lying with him by the water she could hear the moist splash of rising fish, feeding on the scraps at the edge of the weeded bank. Fish, or the long, roundslimv, freshwater eels the schoolboys fished, with a lantern on a log in midstream and rotten eggs broken over the water. She moved in closer to him and he reached out and touched her print frock where it stretched uncrumpled over her breast. She wished that she could see his face or even the white of his teeth. Her eves hurt, staring into the blackness. —Jean, you need the sunlight. Frocks and coats will kill you this weather. Jean's mother was restless. She turned in her bed and stared at the ceiling and at the darker shadow which she knew to be the wardobe but which she couldn't distinguish. Darkness without outline. She threw down the blankets and lay under the cool weight of the sheet. They had come in over two hours ago. Not as long away as she had expected. Jean had gone to her room and he had gone to his bed on the verandah. Jean would be well asleep by now. In the kitchen the clock chimed its vibrating metalmelody and three strokes marked the time. She went to the window and lifted the blind at one corner. His light was out. He too was sleeping with just a sheet over him. Softly she opened the door and stepped on to the verandah, her nightdress trailing celanese-pink over her bare heels and the painted boards protesting discreetly. He stirred. When she was within two feet of his campstretcher he awoke and sat up. With the moonlight shining in on her face he recognised her. Jesus, he thought, jesus. What from here? His mind went no further. He repeated the words until he had to speak. Maria. Maria. His voice sounded without surprise and with a harshflat emphasis. She didn't notice. She sat on the side of his bed her hand on his shoulder, barely touching him, her breath sharp fast and warm on his face. He moved in the moondark and drew her to him.

80 On the steps the bitchdog scuffled and snuffled, stared at the night with gloomy, rheumy eyes and dropped her head to her sleepstretched paws, snort- breathing in gaunt dogsleep.

september, 1944 maurice duggan

EPISODE — THE SCHOOL

"IS GRANDMOTHER had been in bed, very ill, for some time, and the doctor said she must go to a sanatorium in the Blue Mountains. His mother was going, too, to be with her, and decided that the two children and their nurse should go as well. So Ron had to say good-bye at the gap in the hedge to his new friend who lived in the big brick house next door. Bill was two years older and had a Hornby train with a lot of rails and points, and three kinds of signals, and shiny new station platforms (Nos. IB and 2A) with coloured posters and people and luggage painted on the walls in shiny enamel just like the ones with the electric trains that ran round and round all day on the toy floor of the big shop with the moving staircases. Ron had spent his saved weekly threepences on Dinky Toys—proper mov- able porters in dark blue uniforms, passengers, and a green and yellow van with white tyres. The guard waved a green flag and the engine-driver carried a sil- vered oil-can with a long spout. Bill let him work the points and signals. They would become absorbed in plans for new ways of arranging loops, points, and shunting lines. They hadn't a tunnel, but Ron thought of making an enormous brown hill by draping1 the Red Indian wigam that Bill no longer played with over two playroom chairs and a table. Then they made red tunnel-mouths of cardboard and ran the line through the hill. And when the friends who came to visit Ron's sick grandmother and his mother found out that it was Dinky Toys and trains that he had a craze for just then, they often brought him another figure or a car instead of always flowers and things just for his mother or grandmother.

81 But now his Dinky Toys clinked dully in the shoebox that Bill passed carefully through the wet hedge. 'You going up in that beaut new express with the green engine I got a picture of?' 'You bet; and mummy says it's got tables in it, and lights for when we go into tunnels, and I've got to 'member to tell nurse to shut the window when we do to keep the smoke out; and she says not to look out too far 'cos of smuts in my eye from the engine.' He was very excited—the packing to go away, the grown-ups calling in to say good-bye, the impression he was making on Bill. But he would have liked to stay on at his grandmother's house and keep on playing with the trains. He wasn't sure about missing going for the first time with Bill to the small private day school that was reopening in ten days' time. But Bill and his friends recokened it was good fun—they played cricket and other things. Ron had only been to a select kindergarten run by two middle- aged spinsters. And after that he'd been taught by a governess in Melbourne. He couldn't imagine what school would be like. Bill couldn't describe it very clearly. A few drops of rain began to spatter about them. Almost at once a window was thrust open at each of their two homes and two voices called in their charges. 'Ronald! Come in at once, dear—it's starting to rain'—a young New Zea- land nurse. 'Master Billy! Run in directly or ye'll be gettin' wet an' a cold'—a warm- voiced old Scottish nanny. Calling good-bye to one another, the two boys backed away from the gap and each started to run toward the nearest door. But the lead toys in the water-splotched shoebox under Ron's arm clanked so much with the jolting that he slowed to a brisk walk to stop chipping their paint. He had been taught to take care of his things. As he went under the large pepper tree a gust of wind showered drops on him. Heavy rain began in earnest as he wound his way as quickly as possible through the pattern of beds in the rose garden, keeping the smooth gait his care demanded. He crossed the smooth newly-mown lawn, then up the sweet alice grown rockery steps, over the crazy paving of the wide deserted sun terrace, leaving outlined foot marks of mud and grass clippings, to the opened french window of the morning room. His nurse was waiting there with a crisp hand towel fresh from the warming

82 cupboard to dry his hair and jacket. He wiped his shoes carefully on the sodden mat outside the door, stepped inside, and submitted to a vigorous towelling and her kindly but firm reproof. Ron walked steadily down the long drive that led from the white-timbered, red-roofed guest house. It wound down through the parched lawns that fell away from the flowerbeds and sanded paths flanking the wide-verandahed main bungalow. It was a warm, sunny morning. A fresh breeze moved the leaf-masses of the tall gum trees against the giant white cumulus clouds of the bright late- summer sky. The gums stood about half-way down the slope from the guest house to the town. Their untidy bark-draped lower trunks and unfalien dead branches were masked from the bungalow and upper garden by a well-planned belt of scrubs and ornamental trees. The gums, in turn, all but hid the main part of the township from the guests sitting now in blue-enamelled wicker chairs on the sun-warmed main verandah. Just out of breakfast, they were talking and reading the city papers of the night before. Ron's nurse stood at the white-framed double doors that opened from the cool, soft-carpeted lounge. His mother was away at the sanatorium and his nurse would have gone with him but for having to stay and watch his little sister, who had a stomach upset. Ron had almost reached the bottom of the long, dusty drive. He began to feel the pinch of his new shoes, their shiny blackness already dimmed by the spurts of dust that he raised with each step. He didn't like to turn round and wave good-bye to his nurse because he felt all the others on the verandah must be watching him. He wanted to slip away as inconspicuously as possible. He was very uneasy, not having found out what to expect—only told by the headmaster when they had called at his house in the Easter break to fall in with the others when the school bell went at nine o'clock—to get into the rear line of the parade on the school ground, he had explained. The end of the second line because, he'd say, Ron—no, 'Pierce' he had called him—would be the shortest there. He had plenty of time—just down to where the drive joined the road below, along past the church, then up through the park was shortest and across the gully full of scraggy wattle saplings and some taller gums that separated the park from the playground. Time to walk there, ask where to stand, dust his shoes. 'You will be there in time, won't you?' his nurse had said. Plenty of time so long as he didn't dally. Plenty of time.

83 And two shillings for stationery from the school cupboard. He clasped the florin tightly in a sweaty palm, in his other hand the strap of his new satchel w>h his lunch in it. He passed through the gums to where they ended and you looked straight through the fire-blackened fence at the valley below. 1 he fence ran at the outer edge cf the road where the slope was verv steep, with scrub and black- berry, patches of rock and rusting scraps of iron. As he looked down on the little township with its small squared grid of bare du ty streets centred on the single tar-sealed main street, on the Monday washing already fluttering in the yards, on the rusty iron roofs and fences, the breeze brought the sound of the morning goods train grunting up the valley: Can I? Can I? Can I?' It must be a big load. They weren't usually as slow as that—a big mixed goods, perhaps. Would it have one of those big streamlined engines in Bill's picture book? But Bill's father had said the older black ones with funnels stick- ing up were really stronger. The engine, of whatever kind, reached the top of the incline and chuffed a more confident call: 'I think I can! I think I can!' He watched eagerly for it to appear from behind the stand of gums, down where the valley bed turned out of sight. It was getting up speed. 'I knew I could! I knew I could!' it went. Puffing thick smoke, it appeared at last—a black one with no stream- lining. Faster still, though it was approaching the station—a through goods. A thin white jet of steam shot up through the dark smoke. A moment, and Ron started as the shrill whistle reached him. Clenching his hands, he felt the florin, and suddenly panic about school, about being there in time. Clutching his florin, he raced down the hill, his satchel flapping at his side, his front hair long in his face; past the church, up into the littered park. Tiring, he slowed to a walk for a moment, heard the boys shouting—but none in the park. Panicking again he broke into a trot just as the sharp clanging of the school bell rang across the gully. Exhausted terror as he raced down the rough track, over the solid dry clay of the emptv creek bed, up the other side until he tripped on a root, fell, dropped his florin, scrambled for it, panted blindly to the top of the gully where the trees ended and the school ground began. He paused. The boys were in two lines at the other side of the ground in front of the school house. This was an indefinite white, painted once, but the sun had dried it, the rain washed off the flakes. The roof was a greying red. He could hear single staccato cries—a woman on the narrow verandah calling out a

84 word at a time, and different voices answering quickly with the same reply. Bewildered, he began to walk quickly toward them. Nobody had noticed him. Perhaps he could slip into place at the near end of the rear line. Panting, he walked out across the wide ground. It was hard and almost as dusty as the roads, the grass dead and dust-coloured. He noticed how rough it was, how it sloped up toward the school house. Still nobody had noticed him. As he got nearer he realised that the mistress was calling names from a large exercise book, and that they were answering Present, Miss!' She finished, and there was a moment's silence. He heard the caking of his new shoes. He tip-toed, but that only made it worse. Without looking up, the mistress turned, called All present, sir!' through a door behind her, and added an inaudible remark. As she did so, the whole school seemed to turn their heads quickly to see what the noise was. Ron stopped. They stared and giggled. There was a footfall on the wooden veran- dah. The heads snapped back. It was the headmaster. 'Stand still all of you and look to the front!' Then, more quietly to the mistress: 'Pierce is here, Miss McGinley.—Whv aren't you in line, boy?' Ron tried to get out: 'I don't know, sir,' but the headmaster called almost} at once: 'Fall in at the end beside Ross!' He ran to the near end of the rear line and stood trembling beside a large, pasty-looking boy. The boy grinned at him in a queer but friendly way. 'Not by Saunders—Ross, boy!—the other end!' Ron started, but the headmaster boomed back: 'Never mind! Stay there now!' So he fell back into position and stood there quivering and ashamed while the headmaster made some announcements. Feeling his left knee sore, he looked down and saw that he had grazed it badly in his fall. Blood was trickling down his skinnv white leg—his right knee grazed slightly, too. The headmaster was finishing a praver. He began 'Our Father.' The mistress and school joined after a moment. '. . . and deliver us from evil . . .' The few bent heads lifted. 'I'll see you for a moment now before school, Pierce. School! Right turn! Lead in!' Ron turned in a shuffle after the others, watched the front line file up the dusty rise, on to the verandah, into the main classroom, some of the bigger boys

85 breaking off and going more casually into another door at the end of the veran- dah. Prodded from behind, he found himself leading thd second line to join the end of the first. The tail-ender half-turned, hissed: 'Now you'll get the stick.' The headmaster stopped talking to Miss McGinley and beckoned Ron aside as he crossed the verandah toward the door. 'Have you brought the two shillings, Pierce? I'll issue you your stationery.' Then, seeing Ron's knees and dishevelled state, 'Goodness, boy, have you been having a fight already?' Ron stuttered a 'N-n-no, sir,' but the headmaster seemed to disbelieve him. Ron held out his warm, moist, grubby florin. 'Well, well. That state won't do for starting class. Go round to the wash- room'—he pointed to the end of the verandah—'and clean yourself. Then come along to my room for your things. Miss McGinley will show you where to sit. I want you to start with some writing.'

It was playtime and most of the boys were playing a crude sort of hockey on the playground, now, with the winter rains, green on all but a few bare patches. They had a craze for the game just now. They played whenever they could and when they had to stop because of rain they gathered into tight knots to talk about it. They cut sticks from the gully and used an empty can for a ball. Ron had watched them in awe at first, glad because it took them away from baiting' him. Not that they did it for very long at a time. The school rules were strictly against bullying. The vicar who came up to teach Divinity and Miss McGinley did all they could to stop it. The headmaster would have too, but he had so many other things to do. He had to look after the Girls' School and several one-room schools up the valley and back in the hills. Once the vicar had caught five of them onto the big, lubberly Butch Saun- ders. Butch was the town butcher's son. He was a bit simple, but very patient and good-natured, as the housewives said over their backyard fences when he had delivered their meat—but more as an excuse for their being nice to him than as a compliment. The vicar had earned temporary unpopularity by reporting the five bullies to the headmaster. But everybody sympathised with them and said 'Jesus!' and 'whacko!' when they showed their bruise marks from the stick in the washroom. They enjoyed the prestige of them for quite a while after they'd

86 gone. But they didn't stop bullying; only after that they were more careful to see that nobody was around who would punish them. Pick someone your own size if you must have a fight, the vicar would say. Put the gloves on and make it a proper fight if you've got to settle a quarrel. That was fair enough so long as you shook hands afterwards and didn't bear any grudges. To look at the vicar, you'd say at first that he wouldn't stand up to a boxing match too well himself; not now, anyway. He was so tall and skinny. But you felt a bit differently if you shook hands with him. His long, cool fingers had a glip that left your own hand tingling. The way he talked too, deep and quiet mostly, but he oftenj got rather enthusiastic and cheery in his English voice Then you couldn't help remembering the way the bigger boys took him off behind his back. But they were nearly all respectful when he talked to them. He was so genuinely interested in them. His tall stature, grey hair, and long tanned face were impressive too.

Once the vicar had spoken about bullying in Divinity, about David and Goliath, saying that any big bully was really a coward if he met tough opposi- tion. So when they had next bullied Ron, he kept hitting the biggest back until one of them had twisted his arm up behind his back so that he had to squeal that he gave in. Ron had kicked and punched madly, but they only laughed and gave him harder arm jabs and knee jolts. Some of the onlookers said to leave him alone—he was a mad little pommy, anyway. And just when they were thinking what to do with him because he'd given in, he had been saved by the school bell. The vicar must be wrong somewhere. Ron had been surprised, his confidence pricked. He was sitting at his desk near the window, colouring in the loops of the letters on the first page of his copy book. His own letters between the printed lines under the model letters were shaky to start with, but soon got better. The book was the same as the one his governess had used. He had been glad to find something familiar. He glanced disinterestedly from time to time at the crowd of heated hockey players. Even if they had let him play, he hadn't got a stick. He didn't like to ask any of them to cut one for him. Anyway, they said he was too small and funky. He went on with his colouring until a shadow fell on his book. He looked up and saw the long, pallid, flabby face of Butch grinning at him in his funny way through a smeared pane, set in the paintless, splintery wood and the dry, cracked putty of the window frame. Ron grinned back shyly and Butch pushed up the window—squeaks and a rattle of weights.

87 'Hallo, Ronnie,' he said in his slow way. 'Like to come and have a look at something I've just seen in the gully? A surprise—come quickly in case it goes.' Ron didn't really want to go. Lie didn't like being seen with Butch because it nearly always set the others on to baiting them. But they were away up at the end of the field near the goal. He didn't want to hurt Butch's feelings. 'O.K. then,' and he closed his book. 'Come on. I'll lift you out.' It was against the rules, but in a moment Butch had reached in with his large HeJiy hands and lifted Ron onto the verandah.

I hey ran quickly down the side of the held and across to the gully. Butch led him down the track a little way, then pointed up to a branch on one of the tallest gums. A iarge kookaburra was sitting motionless on it with a long black snake hanging from his beak. Ron gasped. 'Golly! I've never seen one with a snake like that.' He had seen the scraggy ones in the cage at the zoo, had only half believed when his nurse told him they lived on snakes in the bush. 'I wonder where he caught it? Is it dead?' 1 hey squinted hard at the bird and snake silhouetted against the bright sky. 'If it wriggles,' said Butch, 'he'll drop it on a stone again to kill it. Poor old snake.' But the snake seemed motionless—or did it quiver slightly? Perhaps just the kookaburra moving a bit. No, they decided, it certainly looked dead. Miss McGinley was writing up some sums for them to do. Then she would explain what they were to do, how they should tackle them, and leave them to work out the answers for themselves as best they could. But none of her class was watching. 1 wo collarless dogs—a mongrel near- fox terrier bitch and a skinny airedale—were circling and playing up and down the bare rise by the school house verandah. The class strained backwards and forwards to watch them. Ron caught glimpses of them as they circled round, sniffing and pawing each other, rolling on the dirt, mock-biting with drooling tongues. The chalk still squeaked on the blackboard. Ron felt a nudge. The boy in the next desk passed him a note. It was open, addressed 'To Butch.' That's right, his was the fox terrier, well fed on scraps from his father's shop. Ron read the message, grinned at the sender, as he felt he was expected to, and passed the

88 paper surreptitiously to the next boy. He couldn't understand the message, 'More pups for you, Butch!' But the others were hugely amused by it.

Once a month all the boys had to take a shilling each and they had dinner together on the trestle tables in the parish hall down by the church. It had been the headmaster's idea. The vicar said it was to teach good manners and school spirit. It was the last dinner of the year. Ron collected his plateful of steak stew and steaming mounds of mashed potato and swede. He found that he had to sit next to the middle-aged, paunchy little school inspector up from Sydney. The inspector user to worry Miss McGinley and even the vicar with all his questions and the way he kept saying what the Government had done for education in spite of the hard times and what it was going to do, and so on, and so on. The inspector always liked to get on well with the boys. He told Ron about the new express he'd come up in. He knew Ron would be interested because Miss McGinley had showed him Ron's composition about trains. It was a good effort, he said the sort of work he liked to see. He asked Ron where he had found out so much about them. Shyly at first, and stammering, Ron tried to explain about Bill's book and what Bill's father had told them. The inspector was very interested, and asked Ron wouldn't he like to be an enginedriver, or a stationmaster or a signalman? Ron wasn't sure. The others within hearing were very impressed and they too asked ques- tions. Proud in knowing more than they did, Ron described the toy train, the tunnel, the Dinky Tovs, the problems he and Bill had solved. Suddenly he saw the vicar moving along the other side of the table behind the form of boys, collecting their empty plates. Flurried, Ron realised that he had a lot still on his own plate. Only the inspector, keeping pace with him, had a few token scraps he was toying with. Breaking off his talk, Ron struggled excitedly with the tough steak. It parted suddenly. A large lump covered in gravy shot off the edge of his plate. Horrified, he saw the vicar lean over quickly with a clean knife, slide it under the spill and lift it off the shiny white table- cloth. Everybody semed to be watching. Ron felt hot and red. 'Don't worry, Pierce,' said the vicar quietly. 'It'll come out all right in the wash.' * * *

89 The headmaster waited for the clapping to die down, then read the final name: 'Ronald Pierce. A Prize for . . .' His heart pounding, Ron stood up, walked along the coir matting to the right side of the stage, and clattered up the wooden steps, across the stage past the bowls of flowers and leaves. The headmaster was standing at the far side of the flag-draped table. He had passed Ron's book over to the vicar, who was giving away the prizes. Ron had his right hand jerked vigorously up and down in the vicar's pulp- ing grasp, the book trust firmly into his left. 'Jolly good, young Ronald. You've earned it,' in his cheery tone. Ron smiled shly and crossed to the headmaster, had his hand shaken again, heard the quiet 'Well done, Pierce,' the patient reminder to go back and make his bow in front of the table. He did so, and set off to the other side of the stage, dazed, the redoubled clapping beating in his ears. Reaching the foot of the steps, he had to pass in front of the other prize-winners in the front row. Grinning, friendly, they seemed to share his embarrassed elation—just his luck to muddle the thing in front of them all. But he was too excited to be very ashamed—not yet, anyway. As he reached his seat among the others, a heavy chord wheezed from the old harmonium. The hall-full behind rumbled to their feet and filled the wood and iron building with a lustily-sung 'God Save the King.' Unable to restrain his curiosity to the end, Ron glanced down for the first time at the cover of his prize. It was The Wonder Book of Wonders. He opened it a fraction, read the inscription—Miss McGinley's ineatest writing . . . Awarded to Ronald Pierce . . . Prize for Progress . . . and underneath the date . . . and the headmaster's signature. As usual, it was almost illegible.

—John ellis

90 T A M G I

HOT DAY. ! The dust was warm on the bare feet of the two boys as they came down to the quarry turn off. The fennel patch running down to the river was white. The stems stood unmoving in the windless morning. Pat snapped off a piece as he followed Roger down the dry water-table. He liked the sharp warm smell of it. It smelt like pepper and raw wool. The quarry road ran white and heavy with dust, even so early in the day. As Roger and Pat came past the high clay cutting at the turn off they could: hear the chip-chip, chip-chip of the crowbars and see the white haze that still hung in the air from the morning's blasting. Sonny Tahu was coming down the road, scuffling with his bare feet so that a broad caterpillar of dust moved along with him. As he came grinning up to them, Pat could see the trickles of sweat running down his chest, under his faded dungaree shirt. Under his arm was his journal cover, tattered and stained. 'Hey, ehoa, you heard about the tangi? No school for the Maori to-day, eh? My mother she says I got to go to find out.' 'Why, what's happened, Sonny?' The boys set off up the gradual slope of the school hill. The Maori boy strutted with the importance of his news. 'You know Mr Terawhini, the old man. He died on Saturday. Big tangi to-day. He was the anga-anga!'

Pat remembered his father once, 'They tell me old Terawhini is a big man in the tribe round here. A chief in his own right.' Pat knew old Mr Tera- whini. White-haired he was and straight. You'd see him going up to the pa on Sundays to church, swinging his walking stick. His face was tattooed. 'Not many old-style Maoris now, with the tattoo. Fine chap, old Terawhini.'

'So no school for the Maori to-day. You get out at lunch time you'll see them take him up to the pa ready for the tangi,' said Sonny Tahu. 'What happens there, then?' The Maori boy skipped along the road. 'Plenty to eat. They got a young bull from Johnny Morris. Proper tangi.' As they came up the concrete steps from the road the boys could hear the excitement in the playground. Pat kept close to Roger. All the Maori boys were swarming around the school. Even when the bell went and the school lined

91 up you could feel the restlessness. Everyone wanted to stamp and yell and race around. Mr Turnbull used his cane a lot that morning. But at last the lunch bell went. Ting-ting. You had to hold it with one hand and hit it with the clapper because the wire was broken. 'Maori pupils will be excused this afternoon if their parents wish them to attend the tangi.' So out down the steps, yelling, fighting and shoving over the stile into the horse paddock. Pat and Roger ate their lunch sitting on the stile. Sitting there in the sun you could see right over the scrub, down past the river and the swampy kahikatea patch, over to the bush. Every so often the locomotive would crawl up the edge of bush, dragging the log trucks, the big pelled yellow logs. The whistles came right across clear, and always the Maori boys would hoot back, blowing into bunched fists—whoo-oo-oo. They sat now in a tight cluster, eating, talking loudly, glancing over their shoulders at the rejected whites round the stile. Sonny Tahu's cackle of laughter burst out at intervals and ran round the circle. As soon as the lunch was eaten and the papers screwed up, the boys moved down on to the road. Roger and Pat followed down the steps. 'Roger, why do they have tangis?' 'I don't know. When somebody's dead, I suppose.' 'Yes, but why?'

Roger remembered the day when the Prime Minister died. He and hit sister had nearly reached school when they met the children coming back along the road. 'Holiday to-day. You can go home.' 'Who says so?' 'Teacher says so.' And big Jim Thomas, the sharemilker's boy, picked up a stone and hurled it up at the cups on the telegraph pole. 'Alright then, you go on and see. More fool you.' ' The big boys chased one another yelling up the road. 'If they can go home, so can we.' But his sister made him go on up the road until they met the drover, a big laughing Maori, riding a chestnut horse and driving ahead of him about fifty head of thin, dejected sheep. 'Hey, you kids, you better go home. No school to-day. The Prime Minis- ter's dead. Big tangi, eh?' He laughed down at them, big and happy under his old straw hat.

92 Too right, she's a holiday to-dayThe big horse reached forward on hi$ bit. 'Like a ride home, eh? Give us your hand.' And with a swing and a scramble Roger was straddled on the horse's withers, smelling the slightly sour smell of the drover. The Adaori whistled, fingers in mouth, his two black and white dogs shot forward, yapped the laggar ds away from the grass of the roadside. The sheep straggled on up the road, their backs splotched raggedy-red where they had been marked at the sale. I he dogs pat- tered along behind them. o / here had been pictures of the Prime mister's funeral in the papers next day—the long shiny hearse, the heaped wreaths, the old men standing bare- headed, sadly, in the drizzling rain. About a hundred yards up from the school was the Terawhini place, with an old picket fence round the potato patch in front of the house. Usually when Roger and Pat came past after school, old Mrs Terawhini would be sitting on the edge of the verandah, a blanket round her shoulders, smoking a pipe and looking at the growing potato patch. 'Good afternoon, Mrs Terawhini.' And she would take the pipe out of her mouth and wag the stem at them. 'Get the cane to-day, eh?' 'No, Mrs Terawhini.' Now the boys were hanging around up the road, throwing stones at the telegraph ]3oles. 'Don't go away, you kids. They're going to bring him out in the wagon. Let's stay and have a look.' Pat climbed up on the fence to peer into the top of a punga post. Once when dad was fencing down by the pig sties he found a starling's nest with three eggs in it. Right down inside the post it was. You'd wonder what hap- pened in the wet. Suppose the water ran off like a duck. Dad had blown the eggs and he still had one of them up on the bookshelf. Hdw would the young starlings get out, too? When the wagon lurched out of the gateway the boys dropped their stones and stared, standing there. Piri Etahi and another Maori sat on the seat in front. The jwagqn bumped dver the dried wheel ruts and turned up on to the road, wheels squealing on the loose metal. Old Mrs Terawhini, wrapped in her shawl, squatted in the back with three other women. In the middle was something wrapped over and around by a grey blanket. The women wailed softly as the wagon moved off. The little chains on the tailboard jingled and clinked.

93 'Did you see him? I saw one of his feet. It was sticking qtat of the end of the blanket.' 'You did not.' 'Yes I did.' 'Liar.' I he ting-ting of the school bell set them running. They were panting when tLev fell into line. No Maori kids here this afternoon. Wonder what we'll do Let old 1 uinbull makes us work. Reluctantly they waited.

Two Maori children, double-banked on a ragged pony, came trotting up the road, past the school gates. Seeing the envious lines, they kicked bare heels into the pony's ribs and went flying up the slope with a scatter of gravel.

Rere nga, pakeha. Work hard.'

Everyone was glad when the last bell went. The bovs vanished around the bend up the slope. Pat walked on the edge of the road, the ripe heads of fog grass brushing his legs. He snapped off a stalk of fennel and crushed it in his hands. But Roger snapped at him. 'Oh come on, will you? All the fellows are way ahead. Throw that fennel away. What d'you want to play with that stuff for? Hurry up, will you.'

But it was no good. It was a long drag up from the quarry turn off and by the time they got to the top near the pa, all the boys had gone.

'There, you see, now we've missed it all.'

The pa was set well back from the road. A few houses, a long way back, then closer the big tin shed where they had Sunday School and Father Christmas came out one year. Once there had been a dance, and Pat had sat on a bench and watched, except that his head kept jerking forward. And he had gone to sleep leaning against the Maori lady whose husband worked on the cream lorry.

The tin shed stood on a flat stretch that ran back on the left and climbed sharply in a hillock. A fence came down past the hillock, through a riot of blackberry, to join the road fence. Near the big shed was a smaller one—the cook house. To-day the flat was covered with people—Maoris in groups, smok- ing, talking, laughing, Maoris carrying kerosene tins of water from the big rust- ing tanks by the shed. Roger and Pat climbed the shallow bank from the road and squatted by the fence, watching. Children ran through and around the scattered groups, in and out of the hall, hot and excited. Just beyond the cook house a small tent had been pitched, a grubby little tent with a flap door. Always, as the boys watched, Maoris

94 drifted into and out of this. Groups surrounded it. The tent was the centre of the gathering. 'Look, Pat, see that tent. I bet that's it. I bet that's where they put him.' 'Look, there's Sonny Tahu going in.' There was a rustle of excitement. Out from the cook house came four men, young Maori men in dungarees and singlets. Their shoulders and thick arms glistened. Each carried a long knife, its blade flashing as\ it caught the sun. The crowd began to drift over toward the blackberry-hung fence. Laughing, the four vaulted the fence and vanished behind the hillock. Roger and Pat looked. What's going to happen now? And in a moment there came galloping around the hillock a two-year-old bull, chestnut-red, head up, nervous and snorting. The four came over the hillock again, knives gripped, circling the bull, clos- ing the circle. Brown shoulders, red bull, gleaming. Th^ young bull's tail switched as he eyed them. He backed up to the fence. Safe behind wire, the delighted crowd slapped his rump, urged him forward. Swinging his lowered head, scraping at the ground with one hoof, he watched his tormentors. Half- crouched, anxiously, they moved in on him. Then a snort, a plunge, and he broke the circle. The Maoris scattered, shouting, waving their arms, heading him off. Over the hill again, and the sweating Maoris running. Once more they crept up to him, the crowd shout- ing encouragement. But the bull was too quick, too wary. The youngj men leapt from the path of his charge. An old man shouted from the fence, a boy ran back to the cook house. A rifle. Now we'll see. Roger and Pat could see the red back of the young bull as he moved along the other side of the hillock. Walking easily, the Maori with the rifle came up to him. For a moment they stood, half-hidden from the road. Then the explosion, the whip-crack of the twenty-two. The red bull's tail went high in the air, and he was down. 1 The Maoris swarmed over the fence. Jumping down the bank, Roger and Pat went on down the road. The little tent by the cook house stood solitary, grey and grubby, flap swinging. Roger was excited. ' 'Dy'see how he charged, see how his tail went up?' stalking the bull up the road, sighting along a shining rifle, building it up in his mind. 'I wish we could go to tangis, don't you? Don't you?' But Pat didn't say a word.

—John kelly

95 NOTES ON CONTRIBUTORS

DAVID BALLANTYNE: Born in Auckland, 1924. Stories by him have appeared in Landfall, New Zealand New Writing, Speaking For Ourselves, Meanjin, and elsewhere, and his first published novel, The Cunninghams, is expected from the Vanguard Press, New York, later this year.

JAMES K. BAXTER: Born 1926. At present at Canterbury University College. A volume of poetrv Beyond the Palisade was published in 1945 by the Caxton Press.

PETER CAPE: Second-year Arts student, Auckland University College. Editor, Craccum.

JOHN REECE COLE: Born Palmerston North 1916. Graduated at Auckland University College and served in the Air Force. A collection of his short stories, which have been published in New Zealand, Australia and U.S.A., is now in preparation. Works in National Library Service, Wellington.

W. O. DROESCHER: Born Karlsruhe. Has lived in France, Spain and England. Came to New Zealand in 1938. Has published short stories in New Zealand and overseas. A recent lecturer in languages at Auckland University College.

MAURICE DUGGAN: Bom 1922. Recently at Auckland University College. Has published in Book, Speaking for Ourselves, Anvil, etc., and in Irish New Writing. A collection of short stories in preparation.

JOHN ELLIS: Born 1928 in Sydney; third-year Arts student, Auckland University College; past Editor, Craccum; member of Students' Association Executive.

A. R. D. FAIRBURN: Born 1904. Poet, essayist and critic. Has published poetry all over. He Shall Not Rise, Columbia Press Ltd (London) 1930. Dominion, The Caxton Press 1938, and other volumes. At present attached to the English Department of the Auckland University College.

G. R. GILBERT: Has published stories in Book, Speaking for Ourselves, N.Z. Listener, and in other little magazines in New Zealand and overseas. A volume of short stories, Free to Laugh and Dance, was published by the Caxton Press. Worked in several broadcasting stations and served in the Air Force. Is now a lighthouse-keeper.

DENIS GLOVER: Born Dunedin 1912. Founded the Caxton Press in 1935. Most recent volumes of verse are Cold Tongue (epigrams and satires), Caxton Press 1940 and The Wind and the Sand, Poems 1934-44, Caxton Press, 1945,

96 *«— N.H.: Prefers to remain anonymous. A student at Auckland University College.

- JOHN KELLY, M.A.: Born in Ireland, 1922. Honours student in English, Auckland University College. Army service in Italy and the Solomons. Has written several extravaganzas and has had stories published in New Zealand and overseas. Teaching in Auckland.

MOLLY MACALISTER: Born 1920. Studied under Francis Shurrock at the Canterburv School of Art. Work has appeared in Arts in New Zealand and she has exhibited in Auckland and Dunedin.

S. MUSGROVE: Professor of English, Auckland University College. Producer of Auckland University College Drama Society's Dr. Faustus, 1948. Contributor to Meanjin and Landfall.

KATHLEEN OLDS, M.A.: Born 1924. Field Specialist in Art and Crafts at North Shore Centre Primary Schools. Illustrator and caricaturist for Student publications.

JILL RAPHAEL: First-year English student, Auckland University College. Typist in law office.

KEITH SINCLAIR: History lecturer, Auckland University College. War service in the Navy; married; has published poetry in Landfall, N.Z.Nevf- Writing, Kiwi and other publications.

KENDRICK SMITIIYMAN: A schoolteacher and lives in Auckland. Served in the Air Force. He has published verse in New Zealand and overseas and a volume of poetry, Seven Sonnets, printed by the Pelorus Press.

GREVILLE TEXIDOR: Born in Wolverhampton. Lived in America, France and Spain, where she worked for the Republican Government during the Civil War. She came to New Zealand in 1940. Has published short stories in Penguin New Writing and in Anvil, New Zealand New Writing, Angry Penguins (Australia) and elsewhere. A selection of trans-' lations from Lorca appeared in Angry Penguins.

ANTHONY L. TREADWELL: Instructor at School of Architecture, Auckland University College; served in R.N.Z.A.F. during the war; recently held a much-discussed exhibition of his work in Wellington.

LILY TROWERN: Fourth-year Arts student, Auckland University College.

TOM WELLS: Born 1927; third-year Arts student, Auckland University College; contributor to Craccum and Kiwi; Chairman of Literary Club; Sports Editor, Craccum; member of Students' Association Executive.

—BJLL WILSON: Fourth-vear student in the School of Architecture, Auckland LIniversity College. W. SUTHERLAND & CO

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Uni versitv: B.A. Stages I. II an <1 III in nearly all subjects. CORRESPONDENCE M.A. in History a n

Laic and Accountancy (Specialist I utors: Mr I). I1. C) Connell, 1.1. M.

COACHING and Mr I. McCtew. M. ( om.l

Ciril Engineers and Surveyors l:\aniiniition.

COLLEGE ( ommercial ( orres/iondence. Maori.

C lear and concise notes. C arejul correction of students work. PRINCIPAL: T. U. WELLS M. A. Eull or outline model answers.

Notes on "C" and B.A. English. Latin and Erench for 1949 now ready. C. P. O. BOX 1414 Students intending to take up study courses for the 19-19 examinations

are urged to hegin work now.

AUCKLAND An earlv start costs no more and makes success almost certain.

DO NOT LET PROCRASTINATION SPOIL YOUR CHANCES OF SUCCESS