A Manuia Production
Alice Hunt-O’Keefe
Palmerston North
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?