THE CENTRE OF POWER

New Zealand Listener, Volume 35, Issue 901, 9 November 1956, Page 10

THE CENTRE OF POWER

HERE is a time, soon after lunch, when the secretary slumps in her chair, feeling suddenly a little large for her girdle, when the office boy dreams over the stamp book balance, when the boss puts his elbows on the desk and concentrates with closed eyes, and when Winston Churchill and millions of sensible latinos rejuvenate themselves with a proper siesta. It was about this time I stepped into a quiet bar to buy a bottle of burgundy for a birthday. The barman was dreaming by the beer pump and his one client, a well tweeded type, was contemplating a brandy. I gave my order and the barman lifted a trap door and disappeared into the cellar. "Dis descendeth," remarked my neighbour, in a well tweeded accent, probably using Pluto’s alias, "A fellow of fearful mien, well aspected to hell." "I don’t expect much from him," I said, "not as much as Persephone; just a bottle of mediocre burgundy. I hope it may fizz a little." *A powerful weapon when charged," he said, "a waiter’s last line of defence. Carry it carefully through the streets of this great city." "Are you a visitor to our town?" I asked. He nodded, shifting his grip slightly on the brandy. "I’m a student of military power," he said. "Auckland is the centre of our military power, and I repair to the centre at regular intervals to study, The last semester, an American term, you understand, lasted a week, and coincided with the Auckland Cup. . . Head work, you understand, all head work, and a readiness to pay the price: the key to success on the race track and the field of battle." "Did you lose much?" I asked. *"T am ina Position to lose all," he said. "We are all in a position to lose all." The rest of the brandy disappeared in one magnificent swallow. "What do I see round about?" he went on. "A small, obsolete naval force soon to be replacéd by a small, obsolete naval force. A small, obsolete air force whose best unit can still engage barefoot Malayan guerillas on equal terms. . Next year, who knows? And ground forces carefully maintaining their three armoured vehicles with fresh paint lest the local garbage collection remove

We, who are used to command, no longer have the power to command. Power has left us in the inevitable progression of history. We spend money as a sop to the past, without relation to the realities of the present. We can no longer pay the price." There was a pause. I paid the price of my burgundy and prepared to leave. "Brave days!" he said suddenly, his face lighting up. "Who’s to deny us the past? Yesterday I led a raiding party up from the East Coast. We needed muskets, which were stored in a warehouse on the waterfront, having lately been unloaded from the barque Scintilla. Now I had learned that the guard regiment was about to be relieved and it seemed that an attack at dusk would give us a fair chance of escaping with our booty in the growing darkness, Pursuit by the new guard regiment could be no more than slow. The plan was this... ." I left unnoticed as he revealed his tactical scheme: a fluent and unlikely character, even in a centre of power as puissant as Auckland. Cooking for a Few Friends HENDERSON, a few miles north-west of Auckland, has an easy going, neighbourly sort of energy that speaks at least three languages; New Zealand English, Maori, and whatever it is that is spoken on the Dalmatian coast of Yugoslavia. This last is a fluent tongue for making wine, and the best Dally wine is good, though that matters little to us New Zealanders. We tend to buy a gallon for Saturday night and then spike it with a bottle of Australian whisky. The people of the Henderson district aim to raise £10,000 and build a hall. So far they’ve invited the rest of Auckland to come and spend their money at a couple of real expensive Sunday afternoon blow outs. One was called a sports meeting, It had a lighthearted, late season game of football, Maori versus Pakeha, a wrestling demonstration, very heavy-weight, whippet races and a hangi. I happened to- be passing, downwind, and smelt roast pork afar off, but by that time the ovens were empty and the people full, except the kids, who were crowded tensely (continued on next page)

them to the dump early one Monday morning," The barman returned with the burgundy. My well tweeded friend extended his empty glass and the barman reached down a bottle of very highly regarded liqueur cognac and poured him a double. He splashed in soda. "Rocks me every time you do that," the barman said. "Fair go. Soda with that!"

"Please join me. We shall lose no battles if we spend yet half an hour." It was extremely good brandy. "Do not mistake me," he went on, with a tug at the points of his mustard tweed waistcoat. "I mean no cheap jibes. Rather I mourn our plight, and bitterly recognise. the inevitable,

(continued from previous page) round a sack-shrouded earth oven, filled as a last resort, with mussels. "Ten minutes yet, kids," said the head chef, a Dally with a check shirt and a huge laugh like a jet in a wind tunnel. "You all run twice round the paddock and they'll be cooked." No one stirred. The chef bellowed out his laugh and went to help the ladies clean up. A hangi isn’t tidy feeding. "She was a pretty good show," a Maori told me, a sack of mussels over his shoulder, as we walked towards the gate, "but you wait till next week when the Dallies have a barbecue and dances and all that. That'll make the money go round." It seemed I was miles down the road when I heard the chef’s laugh and the how! of joy from the kids as the sacks were lifted off the oven. They were good and hungry. I hope the owners got those whippets out of there without toothmarks, Next week, at the barbecue, I found out that although Dalmatians speak Croat, they think of themselves as Dalmatians, not Croats. No doubt they have a word of their own for barbecue,

but heavens, they haven’t the sales force | at distribution points to make competi- | tion there! They'd borrowed a fruit storage area for the party, a place of vast halls, concrete yards and piles of fruit crates. They started roasting at 6.0 a.m. on more than a dozen spits in the open air. I’ve seen three lots of figures, all different, for .the quantities roasted, but they cooked enough to feed 2000 people: sheep, chickens, ham and potatoes; pay your money and take your plate, The Royal Navy left its submarine at Devonport and came along to ride donkeys with all the other kids, Three Queens (married, two children each) were occasionally visible, identified by embroidered sashes, raffling spare roast chickens and building up enthusiasm for free spending. When the crowd was parted from the last barbecued bones, ten young. couples in national costume appeared to music for the Kolo dance. It was a big day. "We're ‘not finished yet," one of the organisers said, "Tell everybody we've got entertainments coming up till the middle of November." I suspect they do it for fun. Still, with broad grins like that you can build a fine community hall.

G. leF.

Y.