The Sharemilker

New Zealand Listener, Volume 36, Issue 925, 3 May 1957, Page 8

The Sharemilker

by

MARIE

INSLEY

"GET up you lazy little brat! Get up."

Tommy opened his eyes to such a vastness of blue that he became lost in it, as he had become lost in the strange white light when he returned to consciousness after his tonsil operation. He was being prodded roughly with a big boot and glaring down at him were the small black eyes and grey, stubbly face of Mr Silverton. Then clearly he remembered. Mr Silverton had sent him to bring in the cows. Warm from sleep but stung to partial wakefulness by the early morning cold ‘he had stumbled down to the night paddock and one after the other, he had headed the cows towards the shed. Until he came to old Bella. Bella would not get up. In the end he had got a stick and whacked her up on to her feet. She ambled a few steps then stopped again, her breath spraying out on the frosty air. Tommy’s bare feet ached. He pushed them into the warm hollow where Bella had lain all night. It was cosy as kapok so, just for a minute, he lay down cuddling into the hollow. He must have fallen asleep because there was Mr Silverton, angry, and the cows all milked-all except Bella. "Get down to the house, you good-for-nothing! Get your breakfast and get ready for school! Pronto!" Mr Silverton moved off prodding and smacking Bella with a long stick. Mrs. Silverton was cross, too. A little fair woman neatly parcelled in her brown dress she stood in the doorway scolding him. Breakfast had been ready half-an-hour. Where had he been? She hurried him through breakfast, saw that he cleaned his teeth, cleaned his shoes and hurried, hurried him so that he would not be late for school. He was not late. The children stood in groups in the playground, some of them playing games. Tommy stood just outside a circle of boys pretending to watch the traffic on the road. He was smaller than the other boys of his class, smaller than most boys of eleven, a dark haired boy with sleepy blue eyes. Kelvin Carr was showing his new cricket bat and Jack Mitchell was talking about his birthday party next Saturday. He was inviting twenty boys and some of the girls. Tommy scraped a hole in the earth with his eye, swivvled around on it and turned back to the group. No one took any notice of him. "My father’s got a new motor-bike!" he shouted. But no one heard. Then the bell pealed and they all went into school. During the) Morning Talk period Tommy drew the letter out of his pocket and read it under the desk. He read it three times. "I wish they would let me have you, son. Be good. Do what Mr Silverton tells you to. Some day you might be able to come for a holiday." Why couldn’t he go to his father? When Mum-when Mum ran away with a sailor... Even now the words banged in his chest and he did not believe it. His mother had died-that was it; and they wouldn't tell him. She didn’t run away with a sailor! His father had gone to work at a forestry. He had a woman there to look after his hut. She was his fhrousekeeper. But Tommy was not allowed to go there, not even for a holiday. His Dad wrote to him, often, and Tommy carried the letters around in his pocket. Sometimes he

aq them on fis way to bring in the cows but mostly he read them in school, While the rest of the class were listening Tommy was up in the sawmilling district with his Dad. He and Dad went deer-stalking and fishing for trout. Soon he would be big and then he would go where he liked and he and Dad would be together again. This was the happiest time of the day for Tommy --the one time when he could read his letter again and again. Only sometimes he had to take his turn at Morning Talk but the teacher usually asked the eager ones---the ones who wanted to talk. At playtime they played marbles and sometimes they'd let the Sharemilker play. That’s what they called himthe Sharemilker, because he was boarded out and had to help Mr Silverton to milk the cows.

‘Today they did not ask him to play. He stood watching for a while and listening. Jack Mitchell was still talking about his party next Saturday. He was going to ask forty boys now and Clyde and Jim and Bert were all talking together about what they’d got for their birthdays and what their parents were giving them for Christmas. And Tommy remembered last Christmas when he had been home with his

mother and father. friis mother was pretty and young and happy and she’d had a Christmas tree and given them presents and then she’d gone out and he and Dad had had tea together. But it wasn’t last Christmas. It was a long time ago. He walked away from the group scuffing around in the long, still wet grass at the edge of the playground. He looked up at the blue sky. On the edge of the

field was a row of tall pine trees. One pine, taller than the others, seemed to stretch and strain and taper right up into the sky. He was half-way up before the children noticed him. They came running over and crowded at the foot of the tree, calling up to him, "Come down! Come down! You're not allowed to climb the trees! Come down!" But he only climbed higher and higher, breathless, tired, scratched, as he bent and pushed through the close growing branches. Once he looked down. The children looked tiny and their voices were no longer distinct but merged and muffled. Soon he had climbed so far that he was looking down on the tops of all the other pine trees. Up above him the slender, light green tuft of the pine swayed gently, seeming to sweep the sky. He paused. His heart bumped back and fotth against his side. He felt fizzy * all ever like a newly opened bottle of lemonade. He looked down, down to the foot of the tree where the children were gathered. He knew none of them now. They were blurred but a wave of sound full of fear wafted up to him. He smiled, looking down at the midgets. Then, unafraid, he continued to climb. The tapering trunk swayed wider with his weight but he pushed on until only the final thin spear stood above him. "Then he leaned against the thin trunk laughing as he swayed back and forth. Looking below he saw a bigger midget join the group. It was the teacher and he seemed to be calling but only a faint sound reached Tommy’s ears. Then clinging firmly to one of the top branches and looking down at the group below he leaned sideways so that the tip described a wider arc. The soft air brushed gently against his cheeks and the branch was warm under his clinging hand.