J.B. In Charge Chapter 8

I confront old Bootles

Through the months of March and April, I truly managed the Brown dairy farm.

Every evening after the milking and tea, I went into Dad's bedroom and we talked just as if we were grownups about the business of that day. I held the farm diary and entered with a pencil the day's cream supply and all our profits and expenses.

After Dad had given me directions for the next day, I handed the diary to him and he with his right good hand wrote over my writing. Every cow was an important member of the farm. We discussed them as if we were school teachers discussing the school kids. Each cow had her own name and a special space in the diary. I wrote important things about her just as a teacher would in a school report.

They were like kids too, always misbehaving and then pretending to be goody goodies when they saw Bruce or me. I still remember the names of the cows I wrote most in the diary about. Yum Yum was Lloyd George's favourite wife. Buttercup had the most cream. Tin‑Ribs was thin and pushed about by the other cows. Pompadour was the most bossy.

Lloyd George always gave a growly moo when he saw Bruce and me taking away all his wives for the milking. He and Kaiser, the boar, never did anything for their wives but looked murderously at anyone who took them away. Lloyd George slept alone in his paddock. Kaiser always slept in his sty with his two wives, one on each side on cold nights. Their wives never seemed to miss them when they were away from them.

Before Dad got sick, we boys were mostly free from work on the farm between the milkings. On Saturdays after the morning milking, I used to wander alone miles away across the farmers' paddocks. I would think about Mr Macgregor's and Brian's stories and imagine them all happening again in the paddocks and streams around me. I often met townies. Farmers then did not object to strange visitors on their land even when they had picnics or gathered mushrooms.

I had never been so exhausted. I would return at night time to the house for tea, and then collapse into bed and wake up at dawn for the milking…

Now that I was the manager, I had to do all the other farm jobs. There was always a special painting, hammering, scrubbing down job that I had to do every day. Because Brian went to school in town, he had the excuse to be always late home.

I had never been so exhausted. I would return at night‑time to the house for tea, and then collapse into bed and wake up at dawn for the milking as if every muscle had been trampled on by Lloyd George.

I was strangely happy. There is something unbelievably satisfying about being your own master of all around you.

One night, I returned weary and sore to the house after milking. Bruce and I had to bring in the cows ourselves as Brian was late. Pompadour, instead of going into her bail quietly as a good cow, instead shot away and stuck her nose into the kerosene tin we poured our buckets into. She began to greedily drink up that evening's milk. I was mad. That milk was the life blood of our farm.

I grabbed a stick and banged her on her back. Pompadour got such a fright that the kerosene tin got stuck on her head. She mooed, spun around and charged. In the next moment I was lying on the ground. When I got up, the ground was moving as if I was on a boat on the sea. Pompadour was rushing round and round the yard and banging the empty tin against her cow mates. They were getting anxious and then they panicked too and started rushing around like silly chooks.

Poor Bruce was looking at me as if to say this puzzle was far too difficult for his doggy brain. Mum came out of the house. With one look of hers, Pompadour stopped and she removed the tin. The cows quietened down after that, but of course much of that evening's milking and the tin can were wasted.

When I crept my aching bones into Dad's bedroom, I found big tears were splashing down his nose. I stared at him and my heart missed a beat. I thought the doctor had told him he was going to be sick for ever. It was actually a relief when Dad said.

We will have to give the farm away to old Bootles.

Then I was angry with Dad's words.

We won't! We won't! I shouted.

Dad handed me a letter. It was from old Bootles. The letter said that the Magistrate had given him a court order to foreclose the mortgage on our farm.

That means, said Dad,
Old Bootles will own our farm and the bailiffs will padlock our gate and send us all packing into town. We will have to ask the govern't to look after us.

To all of us Browns, to do that was more shocking and terrifying than if the Government was going to put us all into gaol.

He can't! I shouted. The dairy factory is paying us good prices for our butterfat.

You notice how grownup I was now sounding.

Dad mournfully shook his head.

He's written a petition to the Court in which he showed all our debts to him. Our cows are nearly dry and we will have no more money until they calve again in July.
The Magistrate said, "We are unable to pay our debts."
There is nothing we can do. I have written a letter to old Bootles asking to come over tomorrow and take over ownership of our farm.

I was grownup in one way. Yet I was still a kid who could not believe that gigantic bad things were for ever.

Dad handed me the letter.

Mum already knows. Take this letter now to old Bootles.

I took the letter and hurried out of the house before anyone could see my tears. It all seemed so unfair. I knew Dad had been wicked to waste his money on the horses. But why should old Bootles take our farm? He already had his own farm that was a lot bigger and richer than ours. As I walked slowly to the Bootles farm, the unfairness made me kick stones until my toes ached like the rest of me.

Then I thought of that court order and I suddenly stopped with a monster of an idea.
I would tonight creep into old Bootles' house and steal that piece of paper!

I had not yet heard of drowning men catching straws but I did know all about Robert the Bruce's spider.

I ripped up the letter and threw the pieces into a water trough. I returned to our house and said I had delivered the letter. When I went to bed that night, I waited until everyone was in bed and the only sounds were creaking and snoring.

When an owl hooted, I crept out of bed and in the darkness put my clothes back on. I crept down the hall and opened the door and slipped outside. The night sky was radiant in moonlight and silvery clouds. The animals were silhouettes against the night sky.

I suddenly shivered with the thought that God must be watching me alone in this sleeping world. I imagined he would be mournful in his long golden beard at my wickedness. I no longer cared. All that mattered was to save our farm and my family. Bruce's chain suddenly rattled and I was frozen in fear he would bark. He only sleepily came out to greet me. I patted him on the head and slipped out the gate.

I walked towards the bull hole and the Bootles farm. The fern-clothed river murmured softly, Go back, go back to your mum. The pines that ringed the Bootles farm swayed and nodded their heads. Save yourself, beware old Bootles, they whispered. I shivered at every new sound and springing shadow.

I wished Matiu and Plurple were doing this with me. I pretended they were beside me now. Matiu would matter of factly work out how to enter the Bootles house and find the piece of paper. I slipped through the Bootles fence and crept towards the house.

There was no light and all the curtains were drawn. I crept to a side door and gingerly opened it. In those far-away days no one ever suspected burglars, and sleepers left their doors unlocked all night. I crept through the hall passage and found my way into a large kitchen. I was sick with fear!

A face with beady eyes and long horns was staring down at me from the kitchen wall. As my eyes became accustomed to the moonlight radiating through the curtains, I saw I was staring back at the stuffed head of an enormous stag. Now I had to go searching for that piece of paper. I suddenly knew how foolhardy I was. How would I find it?

And then I heard in the adjoining room the voice of Mrs Bootles call out,

Is that you Jim?

I felt grilled and frozen all at once. Then I remembered Jim was also old Bootles' name. I crept to the nearest curtain and slipped behind it. Through a tiny tear in the curtain, I watched Mrs Bootles in night gown and slippers enter into the room.

She got down on her hands and knees and began to crawl and call out,

Here Billy, naughty Billy.

Then she got up and said – looking straight at me:

I did put Billy out. You useless cat. There is a mouse in the house.

She went out of the room and I heard the squeak of bed springs. I now decided I had had enough adventures and would now leave grownup problems to grownups. I was slipping to the side exit door when I heard the sound of old Bootles' big car driving up the road. Old Bootles was returning home and I was now trapped. All I could do now was slip back behind the curtain.

The car sounds and lights got closer. The front door soon opened and I heard old Bootles enter into the house. White, brilliant light suddenly flooded the house and I heard the sound of flushing water. Even in my terror, I was excited at encountering for the first time in real life the movie stories of house electric lights and flush inside toilets. We only had the outside long drop dunny on our farm and kerosene lamps and candles in our house.

I would have to wait until both Bootles were asleep before I could make my escape. They were the only people living in the house as their nieces had returned to town. I heard old Bootles enter the bedroom. There was suddenly a burst of concert music.
A man's voice started singing When Irish Eyes Are Smiling.

Turn that music off! said Mrs Bootles.

Shut up! said old Bootles.

I heard a sharp slap and a sharp scream from Mrs Bootles. Then I heard a loud belch and an equally loud blow-off. I assumed that was old Bootles. I was now becoming aware that old Bootles was, as I had heard grownups say, half cut.
Dad never touched liquors too many than were good for him. I knew, however, other dads who came out of hotels with red faces and loud voice and laughter.

Aren't you going to ask how was the Gentleman's Club today, Jean? asked old Bootles

Like every other day, I suppose. An excuse to drink like a fish and be a pig to your wife.

Today was a very important day, replied old Bootles.
I've got here the foreclosure of the mortgage of the Brown farm. I will be owning it soon. I wined and dined all the big wigs in the Gentlemans Club. They all support me.

So that's how you spend you time. While Bert and me are milking the cows, you are hobnobbing with your high falutin' friends, to put on the street a good and caring family.

I was straining my ears to hear all this beneath the loud strains of When Irish Eyes Are Smiling. I was fascinated. Mum and Dad always spoke in whispers in bed. I was not surprised that old Bootles was sounding in his bedroom like the brute he was. I was however very surprised at the fierce spirit of Mrs Bootles. She was a large, thin lady with a mournful face the colour of the skim-milk I fed the pigs and calves on. I now knew that Mrs Bootles was a kind person not afraid to stand up against injustice.

So you're one of those, grunted old Bootles and the bed springs creaked as he got into bed.
That's the trouble with the world. It's full of soft old women. Now we’re winning the war, your sorts are going to inherit the earth.

If anything more was said, I didn't hear it. Irish eyes stopped smiling. Soon there was only the creaking in the house and loud snoring.

I now suspected that piece of paper was in the bedroom and now was the chance. I was just slipping out from the curtain when to my astonishment Mrs Bootles appeared spookily in a dressing gown outside the window. I stood frozen still and watched her slip down the pathway to a little whare at the gate. Bruce's kennel was a royal palace compared with that worm‑eaten whare. Then I saw Bert at the whare door. He put his arm around Mrs Bootles and together they went inside. Then I saw a glitter of a candle inside.

Why are Mrs Bootles and Bert together? I wondered.

This was no time for wondering. I slipped away to the bedroom. The door was open and I crept inside. I went straight to the dresser and there on top was a piece of paper. In the moonlight I faintly read the name of Brown. This was it. I took it away and was slipping out the door when a very clever thought struck me.

Old Bottles will know tomorrow, someone has stolen this. If I take away something else valuable, he might blame a burglar.

I tip‑toed back to the dresser. I picked up the radio.
Old Bootles muttered something and then snored louder than ever.

Straining my arms with the radio, and with the paper in my pocket, I slipped out of the side exit door. As I crept away, I noted the candle light was out in Bert's whare. I stopped outside for a few moments to admire old Bootles’ car. We Browns looked upon cars as people today look upon trips to Disney Land. Old Bootles' car had big chromium wings and running boards like a gangster's car in the movies.

I was amazingly cool until I knelt down to crawl though the fence. I suddenly imagined old Bootles had snatched my foot and I scrambled through in such a panic that I gashed on a barb the calf of my leg. I picked up the radio again, ran blindly to the river bank and rolled down to the river. I even wished my old friend the eel would be in his bull hole.

Iwas alone, a mere boy under a radiant sky, beside a murmuring river with a secret so shocking that if it was known I would be sent to Borstal!
I shivered with this terrible solitary secret. Yet I still could admire old Bootles' radio. I had only seen radios before in shop windows. This one glowed a silvery light in the darkness. Its smooth covering reminded me of my friend the eel. Beneath its dial there was engraved the word Zenith.

I turned the knobs and it crackled and a voice said suddenly,

Then Fagin thought of all the horrors of the gallows and the scaffold…

I dropped the radio as if I was holding a rat, and it went dead.

God Himself had judged me with those aerial gloomy words. I was cornered worse than a cowbail rat. I did not even have a hole to hide in. I buried the radio and the piece of paper in the fern and crept back home.