A Manuia Production

Alice Hunt-O’Keefe

Palmerston North

huntok@manwatu.gen.nz

Cover Vaughan Hunt

Production Fraser Mills

Title page sketch Royce Mills

Compiled in 2006

Distributed to family and

friends in 2007

Our Treasure Hunt

The year 2005 saw the publication of Karlo Mila’s book of poetry,

Dream Fish Floating, which sparked an interest in the artistic talents

hidden away in the family. When Pam wrote an ode, What Miss Turner

Saw, for her university course, the idea of putting together a collection

of various works was born. It seemed to be a good idea to encourage

family members to contribute something — poetry, prose, photographs,

artworks — so that they would be accessible and preserved.

So the call went out to all to send in something for this magazine,

with quite surprising results.

It has been fun putting it together, though it took a long time to final-ise the production.

Fraser Mills has used his skills in collating the works,

So thank you all for being willing to have your efforts published in

this way.

Alice Hunt-O’Keefe

October 2007

Andrea MillsPhotos from top are: Brighton Pier, Christchurch;

Mt Maunganui mist; Flowers in Raglan.

Peter Rawlins & Lynda HuntThe above photo of Peter ski touring from Skoki Lodge to Lake Louise, Canada, was placed first

this year in the open section of our club photo competition. On the right is Peter’s photo of a jetty

in Geelong that placed first in our MTSC club photo competition a year or so ago.

Owen MillsPhotos from top are: Tui,

photographed at Pam and

Vaughan’s place; Bellbird,

photographed in our own

garden; Yellow eye penguin

photographed on the Otago

Peninsula.

Royce MillsPhotos from top are: Hyde, Central Otago

Rail Trail; Longview Hut, Ruahine Ranges.

Cecily MillsSpeedway cake recipe, showing

signs of many years of use.

Once upon a time there was a hedgehog. His name was fireball. Why he

was is because his spikes looked like fire. One day when Fireball was burn-

ing trees he found a desert. He walked a long way in the desert. He found a

castle. He knocked on the door but no one opened the door. So he went in.

He liked it there. But he did not know that the castle belonged to a King and

a Queen hedgehog and they lived there. The King and the Queen hedgehog

came home. Fireball got ready to burn them. The King and the Queen did

not know what to do. Then the king had an idea. “You could be our guard.”

“Yes,” said Fireball. And they lived happily ever after.

Jeremy HuntAge 6

Jessie O’KeefePainting ‘Blue Desert’ water-

colour. Age 13

Once upon a time in a land far far away there was a wizard who lived in an old forgotten mine. He was a short stumpy

wizard with a big bum and a black cloak. Because of this people called him Stumplebum Black. His mine was a maze

of tunnels which the bumplenumhums had dug years before.

One morning Stumplebum was walking in his mine when he discovered a tunnel that was not on his magical map.

Then he noticed the markings on the tunnel. These were not the bumplenumhums digging markings. He had never

seen these markings before. So he decided to look in his digging book.

However, before he could even find the contents there came a creaking sound. Soon it became a cracking sound and

before he realized what was happening he was falling through the tunnel floor. Then he saw what had dug the tunnel.

No-one had ever seen them before so he gave them a name. That name was human beans.

Just then they noticed him and one ran up something that looked like a magic floor climber. Then they started coming

towards him. Just then a wad of gingerbread men fell down the hole and the human beans got such a shock that they

all ran up the magic floor climber. But just as they were celebrating some ogres on unicorns ran down the magic floor

climber and started charging towards the gingerbread men.

Stumplebum had completely forgotten about his magic, so he mumbled to himself “I’ll use my magic.” And so he

used his magic and froze the ogres. Then he used his magic purple floor climber and all the gingerbread men and

Stumplebum Black charged up onto the green grassy plain above. It had a circle of funny shaped trees with an

apple tree in the middle. Just then Stumplebum noticed a pile of gingerbread and he cast a spell on the gingerbread

and turned it into a gingerbread house and they all moved in and lived happily ever after.

Oliver HuntAge 9

Olive Blanche Taylor1905 - 2006

Funeral Service, Paraparaumu

25 February 2006

This is a time for remembering.

So much happened in the 100 years of

Olive’s life, so I will share a few of these.

In 1905 Vesuvius erupted. The world

knows about that. In the same year another

volcano erupted - Matavanu on Savaii,

Samoa. The devastation was huge, the lava

covered 35 square miles of land, and a great

length of the coast.

Olive was born during this time. Olive

- what a beautiful name.

The family had to leave their home as

the slow-moving lava came towards their

village. They were refugees, losing every-

thing. We can imagine the mother, Susana,

caring for her five young children, so that

they survived the terrible event.

Olive had some schooling in Upolu.

Samoan was the first language of the

children, then German, and a little English.

For the rest of their lives they carried the

accent of Polynesian people, making their

manner of speaking very melodious.

In 1918 the flu epidemic reached Samoa

and Susana and Olive were very ill. They

thought they were going to die, but they

survived. Olive worked in a shop in Apia.

By this time some of the older children had

moved to NZ, the land of promise.

When Olive was 21 (in 1926) she went

to Auckland to be with her sisters, and

enjoyed several years working in a boarding

house, then returned to Samoa in 1929 to be

the carer for her parents. She set up a hair-

cutting shop, and being the only European

hairdresser she was in great demand. The

Governor of Samoa sent his car to bring her

to cut his hair, and that is how she came to

cut the Duke of Gloucester’s hair when he

was on an official visit.

Olive always took things in her stride,

without any fuss. She could turn her hand to

most things and had many skills in life.

At this time Olive was one of the young

ladies of Apia, had many friends and a busy

social life. Photos show her in the fashions

of the day, clothes she made on an ancient

sewing machine. She met Police Constable

George Taylor and went with him to balls

at Vailima, which was then Government

House. They were very formal events, and

the music and dancing were as dignified as

an English Ballroom. One can picture the

scene on a tropical night in such beautiful

surroundings.

She and George became engaged to

marry, planning to live in New Zealand.

So in 1936 Olive brought her aging parents

with her so that they could continue to be

looked after by the family.

After the wedding Olive and George

lived in Christchurch, Westport, Greymouth,

Cobden and Trentham, raising their three

children, and taking part in their communi-

ties’ actvities.

Our family will always remember Olive

as a loving, generous, funloving and kindly

aunt. Her three sisters had different

attributes. As children, we thought some

were a little severe when they tried to ‘bring

us up properly’. But we had nothing to

fear from Olive. Children would sit on her

comfortable lap and feel relaxed.

We also remember her with her birds.

They were her companions, and they

responded to her coversations with them.

The budgerigars and cockatiels became

good talkers, and they spoke their words and

phrases with a Polynesian accent - there was

no doubt as to who was their teacher!

In these last few years we have seen

Olive declining, but she was always

cheerful. At her 100th birthday it was a

great delight to see her hands move in a siva

action in response to the Samoan singing

and dancing presented to her.

Karlo, her great-great neice wrote a

poem for her 98th birthday, which has been

published, and so imortalised. There is a

line which says ‘Do your dreams carry you

across the lava fields at night? When read-

ing the poem to her she quickly said, ‘Yes,

yes, I do dream of those days’.

For Aunty Olive (98th birthday)

29 September 2003 You are the living flower in the chain of frangipani that links us all the way back to Saleaula Do your dreams carry you across the lava fields at night? can you dive into molten memory where what is forgotten becomes fluid again and flowing can you reach into the black lava rock and touch the tender green that once grew full of hope can you remember for us the stories silently woven into the finest of mats by graceful and hard-working hands hands like yours hands like ours back across an ocean of swelling sea back through a century of memory You are the living flower in the chain of hardworking and graceful women who journeyed all the way from Savai‘i to weave a new future for us all

And here is a Samoan tribute -

Lo‘u sei e, lo‘u pale auro Le ma‘a taua sa fa‘alilo Ole upu ua tonu i lo‘u loto Ole uo moni e le galo

You are my flower, and you are my golden crownThe special jewel hidden in secretWith the pure word in my heartYour true friendship is not forgotten

Tofa soifua Olive, manuia lau malanga

Alice Hunt-O’Keefe

Hunting the Thimble

A thimbleful of blood

and a pocketful of why

four and twenty sea birds

a segmented pie

the loom of

different bloodlines

criss-crossing

over time.

It is a strange posy embroidered

on the same old familiar fabrics

white cotton, sugar sacks, lour bags, ngatu.A pillowcase on which to lie your dreaming head.

It is the limsiest daisy chain of lovers that connects me

a sharp and genealogical

needle, navigating

its way through the

wombs of various women.

Stitching an unlikely

umbilical line, through time

unpicking purist destinies

the epic tapestry

unravelling

the loom

of love-life

weaving unlikely veins together.

Blue blood, black blood, golden limbs, white throats

different threads and creeds.

It makes for

a strange

skin.

The chain of

unconventional

lowers makes for a strange but lavish bouquet.

Blood poppies, bruised frangipani

stinging nettle, langakali, Irish roses

perfectly stitched

patchwork pieces, family stories

ruched beneath my ribs,

tiny little knots tucked

under seemingly seamless lines.

Mercedes the titled girl from Pagopago,

the daughter of Lord Limerick marrying well beneath her station,

the Tongan drunk daring to ride the lion of zion at midnight roaring

on a royal tomb,

the great grand-uncle, the great grand-master of the freemasons in

London,

the talking chief of Ofu, the beautiful island shaped like a sock,

the black African builder of a south seas palace, tradesman for hire

across Oceania,

the sole insane survivor of the Burke and Wills expedition

foolishness across a desert,

Robert Louis Stevenson’s unreliable man at Vailima who stared into

the eye of a volcano,

the Scottish clan who settled in Rongotea, brothers marrying sisters,

Methodist missionaries strapping Polynesian Princes for their sins,

the Samoan quarter-caste with an elephant leg married for her dowry,

the irst mayor of Kolofo‘ou with blue eyes and wandering hands,the paciist who boycotted active service in world war II and left a widow behind him.

I remember your lives like one liners

like the punch of a joke, but I have ive questions:

Is there a kava bowl

locked inside a china cabinet

that can keep this all inside

steady on her three legs?

Who will

seek the secrets

under the lava?

Who will

unpick the lines

between the tales?

Who will

hunt the thimble

in this house?

And is it

the simplest

daisy chain

of unlikely

lovers

that connects us?

Or is it a needle

burned black, with a careful lameintuitively stitching

a genealogical

line through time

through skin and bone

and destiny

that indsits way

from yours

to mine?

Karlo Mila

David SchaafPhoto of Karlo and the boys.

What Miss Turner Saw

For Susana King, 1869-1944

Based on a sketch by Miss E.J.D. Turner,

Palmerston North, 1936

Pencil lines soften your Savai‘i1 face,

elderly lady, your hair, once a

tight black coil nestled on your neck,

now blunt-ended short rippled waves.

Dusky skinned Great Great Grandmama,

Miss Turner has mellowed your dark skin

for you once wed a fine Englishman,

his whisky-scented breath part of the

colonial life

where you cook over a blue-flame,

stitch fine-threaded flowers

under electric light with

no frangipani behind your ear,

nor flame of fire-pit in your eyes,

no feather-fringed mat woven

at your feet, no pate2 beat nor sheen

of coconut oil dancing on your skin,

no tumbled murmur of the sea.

Yet still you grind wheat by hand

for your porridge, flick dust from

polished corners with your salu3

and lava tautala fa‘a Samoa4,

always. I remember,

Great-Great-Grandmama

to my ivory skinned boys,

how you survived eleven births,

five deaths. I remember

Mount Matavanu. Its fiery tongue

licked slowly down

to your sea, filled your home,

your church, your village

with lava that cooled into

black swirls as intricate as

the lines etched in your face.

You must have sat patiently for Miss Turner;

she sketched your hooded black eyes

fixed somewhere distant, memories

of a Saleaula5 childhood traced

in your smile or do you see yourself here,

shaped by the long-white-cloud

where the damp air seeps

into your Pacific bones, like seawater into

sand.

There is no taro here, no breadfruit,

no sweet drip of mango,

just the unfamiliar taste of palagi6

words; heavy with heritage,

soft of vowel - I wrestle with

them now as they twist

on my tongue.

__________________________

1 Savai‘i – an Island of Samoa

2 pate – Samoan dancing drum

3 salu – traditional Samoan broom, made

from the midribs of coconut leaves

4 lava tautala fa‘a Samoa – speak the

Samoan language (said with vehemence)

5 Saleaula – a village on the island of

Savai‘i

6 Palagi – non Samoan, usually white/Euro-

pean. Pronounced pa-lang-ee

Pam Marks

Out the Kitchen Window

Stretched across the skyline,

your humped back pushes

upward, westerly winds lick

stratus cloud around your cap,

flecked in native black,

edged by plush pastures

and heavy quilts of radiata

fill the scars of settlers

who erode your cheeks and carve out

gullies down to table topped

terraces, dressed in new green,

fringed in board and batten,

where sheep graze and Kahu circle

and swoop on waves over

cliffs worn by your wide river

as it slides through its gaping bed,

where bare poplars, as upright as sentinels,

stand to halt its spread and sheep call

a warning to their lambs

while the quardle oodle ardle wardle doodle

that Glover’s magpie said

is clear in the crisp blue air,

as your massive bulk inches up

and your river rushes on.

Liz O’Keefe‘Turmoil to Tranquility’ (above) and ‘Colour Block’

(below). Both painted with acrylic on canvas.

The top one is a senryu

– a seventeen-syllable poem

which is often satirical of

the times, while a haiku is a

Japanese poem of seventeen

syllables in 5 – 7 – 5 form.

“Do A A KE TE, YO O WO

TA SU HI GA, KO YO U TO

HA” – Never imagined,

Leaving the door wide open,

while in the restroom.

The second one is Leena’s

name written in Japanese.

The last one is a pair of Kanji,

like an idiom or phrase. Foo-

fu-en-man, In perfect harmony

as husband and wife, with a

photo of three of us.

and tinkling

slurping

and diving

Tomoko Wada

Midnight Rendezvous

Bump.

Bang.

Creak.

Cry.

A baby is crying in the night.

A nudge in the back and I roll out of bed

Somehow I manage to stay upright.

My feet aren’t quite talking to my head

As I stumble to her cot with heavy eyes.

I’m always happy to see her, midnight or day

This beautiful little girl standing up while she cries.

dripping

dropping

trickling

and tinkling

swishing

slurping

gurgling

swirling

lowing churning

frothing

falling

gushing

and diving

broadening

slowing

calming

lattening opening…

ocean

Amy Macdonald

Lochlan Macdonald

Mike’s Taonga is called a TOKI. This is a special ceremonial

Taonga “not a weapon”. It is a special Maori Taonga given to the

oldest son, when he has achieved special attainments in life. i.e.

graduation, leadership roles etc. This is intended to be handed

down through generation but only through the male lineage or

whakapapa. Mike’s parents Moira and Ray requested this special

taonga to be carved wanting to acknowledge Michael and all the

hard work he has done to enhance his life skills and to enlarge on

his growing knowledge. Also to always acknowledge who he is,

where he is going and to remember what has happened in the past

which will always be an inportant part of his future. Hence the

naming of this taonga, Whakanui, from his father which is part of

Maori tradition which means to enhance, to enlarge, to honour and

to acknowledge. The wood used to carve the taonga and the bases

is from the rimu tree in the North Island. The blade is Pounamu

(greenstone) from the South Island the rope and the feathers are

from the North Island. The Toki was carved by a carver from Te

Awamutu from the same whakapapa as Michael.

Sarah’s Taonga TE KORU is an ancient Maori symbol, derived

from the fern frond. This taonga represents: Peace, Tranquility,

New Life, Growth and Harmony. The eye at at the bottom is made

from Paua showing the pathway of life. A carver from Christ-

church and a great friend of the whanau carved this special taonga.

The wood that was used is from the Totara Tree, which was grown

and cut down on Michael’s father’s farm in the Otunui Valley in

Taumarunui.

Sarah & Mike Garwith

An expanded excerpt from the travel diary of Dave and Verena

16 September 2005

The island of Elba, Italy

Our 36th wedding anniversary! An auspicious day for the trek up Mt

Capanne to the Sanctuary Madonna del Monte – an eagerly anticipated

‘must do’ in our plan to follow the steps of Napoleon in his period of

exile and triumphant return to power in Paris.

The trail starts at Marciana, a town 375m above the coast where

amazingly we found the house that Napoleon requisitioned from the

mayor to house his mother when she visited him in the hot summer

months of 1814. The house was obviously chosen as a prime spot

for views and cool breezes. A worn plaque on the wall gives the

history but, of course, does not say if the mayor was pleased or not to

temporarily lose his house!

Above the township a wide track signposted ‘Madonna del Monte

3km’ marked the start of the climb. The manicured entry soon became

a very steep, narrow track of hewn granite, worn in parts by centuries

of solid wagon wheels. All the stones were carted and shaped by

the Monks – presumably by hand, what a job! Alongside the track at

regular intervals were 14 shrines, Stations of the Cross, depicting the

crucifixion and resurrection of Christ. Collections of native flowers,

seeds, branches and the like adorned each shrine, little offerings from

hikers.

The Sanctuary, first established in the 13thC to preserve a rock with

.riaper doog ni si tub desolc won si ,nigriV eht fo egami suoiretsym a

The church is fully furnished, open to visitors and filled with burning

candles and flowers. We suspect that there are resident caretakers who

we found playing card games in a very noisy fashion at an old stone

table in the gardens.

Napoleon spent many leisure hours at the Sanctuary. Reasons

given are that he could view nearby Corsica (his birthplace) from the

mountain top and he valued the seclusion and cool climate at 627m

altitude. It is said that the surroundings were inspirational in planning

his escape from Elba and his attempt to regain power.

In May 1814, Marie Walewska, his long time lover from Poland,

secretly visited Elba with Napoleon’s son and the monastery was

chosen as the hide-away. The monks were thrown out of their

accommodation to make way for the lovers. This visit was quickly

curtailed when word got out that Napoleon had a lady visitor. Everyone

assumed that it was his wife, Marie Louise, and for political reasons

Marie W, had to be shipped off with all speed! Apparently not easily

as there were strong gales at the time and she was moved from port to

port to make her getaway.

We had lunch seated on the monks’ stone benches (we like to think

that Napoleon and Marie enjoyed the same view as us from the same

benches), explored the church, the stone courtyards and monastery

buildings. Wonderful to have the freedom to wander freely in such an

interesting and historic place.

A spectacular visit – not to be missed by any visitor to Elba.

Verena & Dave Haynes

Mariam Haynes-KhalifaAge 8

The Platoon Battle Field

A kind of normal atmosphere arises,

This is when you are at your weakest.

It’s time to get back to basics,

For your encounter with the enemy.

As the enemy lurks in the savage habitat,

You only trust your eyes

As they can tell no lies.

The enemy must be standing its ground.

Too scared to blink or breathe,

You try to make the first move,But jelly can’t walk.

Heart pumping, head thumping.

As you wait, someone must crack.

It seems like your body is saying

Look at me! See me! Hear me!

Time has stopped

Everything is slow motion

All at once everything starts to happen.

A man runs toward you, thud.

Orange paint seeps slowly down your shirt.

Dugan O’DonnellPoem for 5th Form English (2001)

Alice Mila

Sick Bay (2004)

I’ve been in Sick Bay for a month

Lying quietly on a hard bed

Surrounded by wooden walls painted an uneasy cream

With windows so high only the mottled sky is visible.

I have an ailment that requires rest

And the consumption of food for the convalescent.

So I have been eating gruel; light and thin,

Nourishing, plain and wholesomely dull.

You visit me, bringing crackling energy

That bounces off the faintly disapproving walls.

You say, “I’ll take you outside for some air.”

And help me off the bed and out the door.

There are chairs and rugs under a tree.

You steer me there, saying, “I’ll do the thinking for you.”

The light is so bright I squint and meekly sit

Drawing a rug around me.

You produce food, colourful and fragrant.

I take small bites, sip water, and settle to look at the colours.

You talk, I talk, we laugh.

The light is so bright, the air so fresh, my eyes water.

After some hours I say, “It’s time for the Sick Bay again.”

You leave me within the enguling cream walls(Though now their power seems depleted)

With kind words, food, and a fruity effervescent drink.

I stand on the hard bed and clumsily throw

The remaining gruel out the window for the birds.

Then I sit and sip the bubbly drink

And think about how I will pack my suitcase.

Little Song (2002)

Unexpected Good came a-knocking at my door

I said Come in, it’s good to see you here once more.

She sat down at my table, and I said I’ll get our friend

And I called Created Good in, always here I can depend.

We sat there saying Now just need to give Love a call,So I brought my children in, and she came in with them all.

Gillian HuntTwo “Failed Love” Poems and a Ballad

Rainwater Rosé (2003)

I think of how

I used to lean into the rose bloom

and drink the rainwater

caught in the petals:Rainwater rosé

Like rose-tinted tears,

Without the salt.

You and I drank Rosé

when our liking unfurled.

We leaned into each other and drank,

Loving the taste, and knowing in our hearts

we had ahead a fragrant summer.

Much later, in the garden

it looks like rain.

I feel my aching head –

The after-Rosé ache

that is to be expected,

Welcomed even,

Ruefully smiled about.

I linger, sipping tea,

And stare into the rose’s whorl of petals

Believing I can make this into sense.

I originally composed this miniature

for piano three years ago to accompany

particular thoughts at that time. It is a short

piece very much in a 19th century idiom

akin to Schumann. Here, I have revised it,

tidied up a bit of the harmony and presented

it formally for the first time. Diotima, referred to in the title is a character taken

from Freidrich Holderlin’s 1799 Elegy,

Menon’s Lament for Diotima.

Kyle Macdonald

The Fantail’s Nest

From my bedroom window North is seen

From under the veranda fringed with green

Through Wisteria’ s leaves the new sun streams

To nudge away any lingering dreams

And its where Wisteria twists her best

that Piwaiwaka built her nest

My window’s views are never known

Those captured secrets never blown:

What children do when all alone

Or where a Fantail has her home

But if I lie still like new fawns do

I get to share in one or two

She catches flies that emerge near night

Then Piwaiwaka on her nest alights

Her dazzling white now folded tight

Neath two black feathers, their tips in sight

But the rest of her from view has gone

In that perfectly shaped inverted cone

Danger! Danger! There stalks the cat!

But he appears to combat that

And bravely flits before and back

To show our George the unwelcome mat

So George leaves there beaten fair and square

Yet carries an air that he does not care

The Nest is safe and the fuss abates

And He departs to where-ere he stays

Leaving Piwaiwaka and her spy to wait

On either side of the windows pane

For the biggest thrill a spy could get

Should a baby Fantail raise its head

Warren Hunt

My Sun

Magnificent orb

Once deified

Ancient men petitioned to you

Awed by your gift of light

Alas sweet Ra, science has proved you no God

A radiant sphere of volatile gases

A star of only mediocre proportions

Yet you hold this planet in your force

Your ultra violet fingers having stirred primordial pools

And awakened mankind

Praise be to your celestial body illuminating the sky

Sustaining my world

Lifting my spirits from the dark

Inspiring playful romps

Punishing with pink stains

My star

Merely a star

Your warming caresses

Soothing to my bones

Have mutated some small part of me

Leaving a bitter reminder of youth’s folly

Provoked by your touch

My skin yields renegade blemishes that must be cut away

Your incandescence beautiful to behold

Is now poison to me

Disappointment lingers

For the love of soaking up your rays

I have been exiled from those golden days

And must hide

Tania Martin

Alice’s 80th Birthday, 2005

Around She goes, this world of ours

Involving us in every turn

Adding on those extra hours

We count with care so to discern

That special day we’re free to flower

Rejoice with me! My candle burns!

Those happy wishes packed with power

To validate celebrations earned

Around you go - Your turn to turn

A Morepork in my bush

He flew right before my eyes

As I walked down through my bush

With the Sun still on the rise

And the grass and leaves still lush

I wondered who he was

Until he settled on a branch

Then I recognised my guest

With a jolt that drew a gasp

My granddaughter saw him too

Her eyes would see him better

He as cool as cucumber

And we as hot as pepper

She was just as thrilled as I

When he looked straight back at us

As if to let us know, now

Not to make a fuss

So we left him to his comfort

Honoured he chose our roost

It was more than I could wish for

A Ruru in my bush.

I joined the New Zealand Police when I was

18 years old.

It was almost as if it was an accident

really. My older brother and sister had both

been to university but I was looking for

excitement and studying didn’t seem very

exciting to me.

Then one day I was introduced to a chap

about my own age who was a Police cadet.

What he told me sounded interesting so I

went along to the Upper Hutt Police Station

to find out more and before I knew what had

happened I was training to be a policeman

at the Police Training school at Trentham

military camp in the R.A.A. Prater Wing

Number 28.

The Police training school was only a

short distance from where I lived in Pine-

haven so it was really not like leaving home

at all.

Cadets joined at 17 years of age and did

18 months training so that when they

graduated they were 19. I joined as a recruit

and my training course was 3 months long

and I turned 19 during the course and in

December 1964 I was let loose upon the

unsuspecting public of Wellington. I was

to be a probationary constable for two years

while I completed my in-service training and

then I would be permanently appointed.

Of course at 19 years of age I was a man

of the world and full of all the confidence

that goes with being that age and I didn’t

really think that there was anything out there

that I couldn’t handle.

I was appointed to Taranaki Street Police

Station which was opposite the Green Parrot

café, a notorious place that serves copious

quantities of very basic food accompanied

by all the bread and butter you can eat. The

success of the concept is demonstrated by

the fact that it is still popular today and

occasionally features in the news as a place

frequented occasionally by MPs as well as

others of notoriety.

The Police uniform was a dark blue and

I had heavy shoes with commando soles and

I was topped off with a pillbox helmet with

the Police badge affixed to the front. In the

winter the helmet was dark blue and I wore

a dark blue tunic and trousers, but in the

summer time I wore lighter blue trousers, a

blue Police shirt with Police insignia on the

epaulettes and a white helmet. The trousers

had a special pocket for carrying a wooden

batten with a leather strap and we were

issued with handcuffs which I usually hung

over my belt at the back.

I was assigned to walking the beat in

central Wellington around the Cuba Street

– Taranaki Street area and I was shown how

to walk at a measured pace so that it would

take me 15 minutes to reach the next corner.

The Sergeant would come around to check

on me every hour or so and he would know

exactly which corner of the beat I was sup-

posed to be standing on at any given time.

We had no portable radios or means of

communication with the station and the

contact by the Sergeant was important for

our safety as much as anything else.

While I was being shown around we

passed a building I was later to recognise

as a strip joint and I noticed a very good

looking girl standing outside. Young men

notice these things I suppose (I guess older

men do to too) but she had a very curvaceous

body and was showing copious quantities

of cleavage. I nearly fell over when as we

passed I heard this deep baritone voice call

out “Hello boys”.

I couldn’t believe what I was hearing

and I guess she (he) had a good giggle at the

gawking eyes of the young man of the world

who had just seen his first transvestite.

I must have looked extremely young as

I strutted the streets but I held myself tall

and was very proud of the uniform I was

wearing. I was all that was standing between

law and order and anarchy in the Capital

City of New Zealand and I took the job very

seriously.

Most of the matters one dealt with on

the beat were minor disturbances of the

peace and in those days everyone seemed to

respect the uniform and I was welcomed by

the shopkeepers and the general public alike

and when I had occasion to arrest someone

for a minor offence they came along to the

Police station without resisting. There was

a notable exception to that when a colleague

who had been in the same recruit wing as

me, tried to arrest a chap for a minor offence.

The offender didn’t take kindly to being

arrested so he twisted the Constable’s arm

behind his back in a classic Police hold and

marched him down the street to the Police

Station. I don’t think the cop ever lived

down the ignominy.

We worked in a five week roster so every

fifth week we did a night shift. At the start

of the night shift we would walk around our

beat checking the front doors of the busi-

nesses to make sure that all the shops were

securely locked. It was amazing how many

times we came across business houses which

had closed for the night and the front door

was closed but not locked. When that

happened we would use a phone on the

premises to call the station and they would

contact the owner to come down and check

the premises and secure them.

One night I was walking the beat up

Cuba Street and as it was a cold and dark

night I was wearing a heavy woollen Police

great coat. It was a mid-week so by about

midnight all had gone quiet and I was

wandering around empty streets, measuring

my pace so that I would meet the sergeant

where he expected me to be.

After the Sergeant had been I decided to

vary the beat a little and I strolled through

to Sturdee Street. Sturdee street was full of

parking meters because being one back from

Cuba Street, it was an area where people

parked while they went to do their shopping.

As I got to the top of the street I saw that

it was deserted except for a car three quarters

of the way down and there were two chaps

with their heads under the bonnet.

My first thought was that they had

broken down and as there was nothing else

to do I decided to go and see if I could

help. They didn’t see me at first but as I

approached one of them looked up and said

something and they immediately put the

bonnet down and went to the passengers side

where they stood talking.

My suspicions were aroused and if I had

been a London Bobby I would have been

saying “‘ullo ‘ullo ‘ullo. What ‘ave we here

then?”

Every time I think of that phrase I can’t

help thinking about the London Bobby who

found a chap with three heads, no arms and

only one leg acting suspiciously around the

back of some shops. You can guess what he

said to him:

“‘ullo ‘ullo ‘ullo. You look ‘armless.

Better ‘op off home then.”

One of the two by the car was a little

chap, a bit shorter than me and slightly built.

Piers HuntA short story.

WALKING THE BEAT

A very young Constable Hunt Walking the beat

The other was heavy set, about 6 foot tall,

and both of them would have been in their

early twenties.

I decided to be friendly so I said: “Been

having trouble with your car?”

“Yeah” replied the smaller one.

“Have you got the keys with you,” I

asked. That was a good question I thought.

How did I think of that?

“No,” the smaller one spoke again. “We

borrowed it from a lady in Karori but she

didn’t give us the keys.”

”Bloody hell,” I thought. “These guys

are car converters.” And the first tremors

of excitement ran through my body. I had

never come across car converters before.

This was really big stuff.

What the hell do I do now? The fingers

of fear ran up and down my spine as the

realisation struck that I had to deal with this,

after all I was the law, and yet I was in a

deserted street in the middle of the night

with two guys who could probably deal to

me if they were so inclined.

About this time I started to shake a little

but in my sternest Police voice I said, “I

think you had better come down to the

station with me while we sort this out.”

I knew I had to get the details of the car

so I took out my notebook and pen and tried

to write down the registration number but I

was trembling so hard that I dropped my pen

and had to bend down in front of them to

pick it up.

“O.K.” I said when I had the vehicle

details, “walk in front of me down the road

and I will tell you where to go.”

I really didn’t think that two car convert-

ers were going to walk meekly along the

road for a kilometre or so back to Taranaki

Street Police Station but I had a little plan.

On the bottom corner of Sturdee street

was a building with a light on and I knew

that Traffic cops employed by the City Coun-

cil operated from that building. I would get

them to the corner and then herd them into

that building and get some assistance.

Just before we got to the corner and

when we were on the footpath beneath the

lighted window they started to talk. I sternly

said “No talking,” and with that the smaller

chap was off like a hare. I briefly contem-

plated chasing him but that would have let

the bigger guy get away, so I grabbed the big

guy and let the little guy run.

Well a struggle followed but the big chap

just seemed to be trying to get away and

I was holding on for grim death. I had

caught car converters! I wasn’t going to go

back empty handed.

We fell to the ground and I desperately

looked around for someone to help but still

the street was deserted so I decided that

I would throw my torch through the lighted

window and whoever was inside would

come and look. From lying on the footpath

I threw my torch as hard as I could at the

glass but it just bounced off and landed in

front of me.

“I didn’t throw it hard enough,” I

thought, so I grabbed it and threw again,

this time being certain that the glass would

smash under the impact. Again the torch

bounced off the glass and landed in front of

me.

“I know what I’ll do. I’ll knock the

bugger out,” so this time when I grabbed the

torch I hit the car converter as hard as I could

on the top of his head. Still he struggled so

again I whacked. Whack. Whack.

Didn’t seem to make a lot of difference.

But maybe it did because I found myself in

a position where I could handcuff him and

just as I clicked the handcuffs shut a police

car cruised around the corner with two

constables inside.

They told me that they were responding

to a call from someone in the building who

had phoned the Police Station because some-

one was throwing stones and eggs against

the window.

The next day a detective was assigned

to try and locate the second offender. I was

hugely impressed by that. Detectives only

investigate serious crimes and here was one

on my case. I don’t think I had even spoken

to a detective before that and I was in awe of

his investigative ability.

Sadly he reported that the two offenders

had been from a ship berthed in the harbour

and he was unable to determine who the

second offender was.

I don’t recall getting any special mention

from my Sergeant for my courageous arrest

and I was left to revel in my own personal

glory of being the only beat cop that I knew

who had arrested a car converter.

SCARED

Your red and blue cage makes the garage bright.

Are you scared of the shovels?

Do you want a night light?

Is the car too big?

Are you too small?

Are you afraid of the water-rig or the pails that are tall?

You’re not a wild mouse.

Do I need to take you back?

Or do I give you a humungous house?

Age 8

My Dream

A helicopters spinning

A raindrop on my head,

Balancing on a ball,

Creeping on a lead.

The trampoline collapsing,

Hail on the roof,

Never finding something that is waterproof

Melon on the table,

Cherries on the walls

Changing feet to feet,

Isn’t that against the laws?

Age 7 ½Once upon a time

Once upon a time a witch had been in a terrible storm. She knock, knocked

on the door. The door swung open like a carriage door pinging. She called

out “Hello..Hello is anyone home” she called out quietly. Her eyes lit up.

She saw the most beautiful can with perfume in the can. The princess had

just seen the witch’s eye light up. “Get out” she screamed. The witch said,

“can I stay with you? I was in a terrible storm, oh please help,” she begged.

“Please, please”. “Oh all right” said the princess “only for a day or two”.

The princess showed her around the rooms. “Here’s your home and here’s

your bed”. “Oh, it’s perfect” the witch said. “I will make this home like

normal”. “Have you any rain on the bed?” asked the princess. “Just a drop”

the witch said shyly. Then she crept into bed and was sound asleep. So was

the princess.

Someone came in the house and helped himself to food. When the princess

awoke she saw a prince on her chair. “Get out of here” she shouted until she

saw him fully. “Oh you can stay,” said the princess. They both gently took

the witch out of the bed and the room. The prince slept in the bed that the

witch slept in. “Can I go to sleep?” the prince said. “Yes you can,” said the

Princess. “You can do that” She made the prince comfortable and later led

him into the cupboard. “You can have any food you like” “Thank you very

much,” said the Prince. After that she gave him a hot chocolate and put a

towel around his shoulders because he was cold.

After that they had morning tea. She said “It’s lunchtime soon” When it

was lunch they went to buy a goldfish, a cat, two guinea pigs. She also

bought a dog and two ducks. She ought to feed them and she did. The

prince went on a hot air balloon with her and after that they married and

lived happily ever after. The witch was also married and lived in a cottage

with her husband the Ogre.

Age 6

The Swing

The Swing’s an old dirty looking grandfather

He has had many kids on his lap.

He has half broken bones.

Poor old Swing!

Age 8

Caitlin O’Keefe

The Moldy Pancakes and the

little Woman 2004

Once upon a far country from Australia called New Zopie

there lived a little Giant called Pistachio.

One day the giant’s wife was making pancakes, and she

put moldy dye in all of the pancakes. Then she grabbed

thorned brass and added it to the pancakes. A big and

greedy giant called Gilli came and said “WHERE IS

PISTASHIO?” “He went looking for you’’ she replied.

But actually Pistachio was in a baby’s cot. He was hiding

from the big giant. The wife gave a pancake to the giant,

who moaned “oooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooo

ooooooh.’’

The giant moaned because his teeth got caught in the

brass.

He ran out the door and up the hill and never came back

again…

Age 7

Was this a sign of early poetic talent?