J.B. In Charge Chapter 10

What is old Bootles burying in his garden at midnight?

That night in bed, the policemen's faces loomed in the darkness.

A terrible guilt lay over me as if I lay in an icy-cold bath. I did not feel guilty at all about the court order. My guilt was in the policeman's words, a valuable radio.

Before Dad got sick, the Bootles had unexpectedly visited us. The grownups had sat in the parlour in front of the open fire place. The parlour was only used on very special occasions. I slipped in and nestled beside their chairs to listen to grownup talk.

Old Bootles, to my delight, was talking about the South African war. I thought it would be all about gallant horse charges with dazzling sabers waving. I stared at his hideous scar and black bristles as he instead chuckled how he burnt down the Boer farms and slaughtered their farm animals.

You don't win wars by being soft old women, chuckled old Bootles.

The other grownups were silent. Mrs Bootles looked at flattened as always. I got the feeling Mum and Dad were as surprised and dismayed as I was. Old Bootles suddenly saw me and was silent.

Would you like to stay for afternoon tea? said Mum in her best ladylike voice.

We should be heading home, said old Bootles.

Oh do stay, said Mum.

I think we can, said old Bootles.

Mum beamed her most radiant Country Womens Institute smile. Dad and old Bootles went out to inspect the farm, with Mrs Bootles trotting behind.

As soon as they had disappeared out the door, Mum grabbed me in a vice‑like grip.

J.B., go outside at once and get me all the cackle berries you can find. Also pick me two Chinese gooseberries, she whispered hoarsely.

I hurried outside and soon found a few eggs under a hedge and picked the Chinese gooseberries. Cackle berries was the joke name for eggs. The Chinese gooseberries grew on a straggling bush overhanging our boundary fence. We know them well now as kiwifruit.

When I returned, the wood stove was alight and the kitchen became a hive of Mum's conjuring tricks with eggs, cornflour, sugar and cream. Mum was using the recipe page from the New Zealand Farmer magazine.

Could I help her make the afternoon tea cakes, I eagerly asked.

Her strong arm sent me out the door with a crushing reply.

The kitchen is the place for women and girls.

When we returned to the parlour, Mum entered with her silver tray piled high for afternoon tea. Her radiant Country Womens Institute smile had returned. When Mum handed around the cake slices, old Bootles looked at them suspiciously.

What is it?

It's a pavlova, said Mum

Old Bootles chewed a helping.

Yorkshire puddings are my taste, they're sturdy like Yorkshire men, not like airy‑fairy Russian ballerinas.

He pushed it aside.

Now look what you've done, you clumsy old duck!

He, to our astonishment, grabbed Mrs Bootles and rushed her to the kitchen tap.

Mrs Bootles turned a crimson red. With inaudible mutterings, old Bootles wiped pavlova off her dress.

Now Jean, thank Mrs Brown for the nice afternoon tea, said old Bootles as they were departing.

Thank you Mrs Brown for the nice afternoon tea, said Mrs Bootles.

When old Bootles disappeared out the door, Mrs Bootles suddenly grabbed hold of me and planted sloppy kisses over me.

I would just love to have a little boy of my own to spank, she said.

I felt quite nauseous.
When our guest had gone, Mum turned to me.

You have got to forgive Mrs Bootles. She has never had any children.
and with a husband like that, added Mum quietly to herself.

I lay in bed racked with guilt about poor Mrs Bootles. Somehow I had to return their radio. The entire house was asleep. Brian snored beside me. Again I crept out of bad and began to gingerly put on my clothes.

I returned to the bull hole and searched among the ferns for the radio. My hands touched again its smooth luminescent metal. Stealthily, I carried it back to the Bootles farm. I had resolved to slip it under the house and then forget all about these happenings. I stopped and stared. There was a torrent of black smoke billowing out of the Bootles milking shed. I had never before seen such a sight.

Then I turned icy cold when old Bootles walked out of the shed. I dropped to the ground and ducked behind Bert's whare. There I got that funny feeling you get sometimes that a place is mysteriously unoccupied. I should have stayed still but curiosity made me poke my head around the back to spy on old Bootles.

Old Bootles seemed to be sober but was muttering oddly to himself. I caught references to soft old women and South Africa. In one hand he was carrying an old sack. In the other a spade. He went to the side of the house and began to dig a trench in the garden. Then he began to take objects from his sack and lay them in the trench and cover them over with earth.

As my eyes became accustomed to darkness, I recognized they were charred bones.
My first thoughts were,

What sort of animal could they be? And why was old Bootles doing something so strange?

Old Bootles then walked to the side of the milking shed and emptied charcoal and bits of bone from his sack. He then trampled these into the ground. Old Bootles then disappeared back into the milking shed.

He soon returned with his sack bulging again and in the other hand – a gun!
I was now sick with fright. He walked to a swampy bush area behind the house, and I could see him emptying from the sack a bundle of men's clothing. Then I saw him return empty‑handed and enter the side door of the house. A light flowed briefly in the house and then all was darkness again. It was time for me to leave.

I slipped the radio under the whare and crawled away. My knees were too weak with fright to carry me. I noticed the door of the whare was wide open. I saw with a last shudder, poor Mrs Bootles' slipper on what looked like trampled grass at the foot of the whare door.

When I crept back into my bed, I remembered with relief Dad's words that: ‘I was now a little boy again.’Whatever old Bootles was up to, I would leave to the grownups. I suddenly hoped this was all a recent dream. My skinned knees assured me I had really witnessed all this. A little voice whispered to me old Bootles' evil act. Old Bootles had murdered Mrs Bootles and Bert. A few hours later, Brian and I got up to milk the cows.