The Boss

Te Ao Hou, June 1962, Page 11

The Boss by Rowley Habib We were a fortnight overdue already. And the boss was mad. What with the other job waiting for us in Tauranga and one thing or another. Somehow everything went wrong with this one. It was one of those hoodoo jobs. First there was a hold-up at the mill itself. At the last minute one of the neighbouring farmers decided he did not want the power lines to run down through his paddock. So we had to take them to the right then approach the mill from the off side. This meant arranging the wiring in the building to enable connection with the new approach of the lines. Then we discovered we were a dozen or more poles short and had to go back to the depot in Taupo for more. About three days were lost in all. Then the bad weather set in, and we could only work in snatches when the rain and wind ceased. Yes, it was one thing or another. He was a small man, the boss. Squat and solid with face and hands like aged tanned leather. And he was a character because he always wore a cap like golfers do, or rich horse owners at race meetings, which looked out of place on our job. And he had a voice on him. It was as coarse to listen to as some of this new rock ‘n’ roll music we hear on the radio nowadays. A real sandpaper voice. And did he use it. Even when he was talking naturally it always sounded as though he were annoyed and growling at something. All his men disliked him. Sometimes even hated him. Like the time I am talking of. ‘The old b—’, Joe Mason said. ‘He's going to kill us just because we should have been finished the job a few days ago’. This and many other remarks (unprintable) were passed behind his back. I can tell you. He had no faith in us it seemed. We were a pack of dunder-heads and could not do a thing without his guidance. But he knew his job all right. No one of us disputed that. He was a man well into his fifties, who had been a life-time with power lines. But all the same–— That morning, a Friday, the sun broke through. A weak sun: but it looked as though we might finish the job at last. A peculiar wind was blowing that day. It would blow in gusts: suddenly while everything was still. Then as suddenly it would drop. We were standing on the roadside where the truck had been parked. The boss was looking up at the sky. Watching with half-closed eyes. ‘We ought to finish the job today’, he said. ‘I think the weather will hold all right. We're all connected up at the main line now. There's just the old line to come down, then we'll see how she goes'. He looked up at the sky again. His eyes still half-closed. ‘Yes we'll see how she goes', he said again. ‘We'll see how she goes all right’, I thought. ‘The old b–—, he'll have us out anyway. Rain or no rain’. Well it rained. And he had us out anyway. It was not too bad though, for it only rained in spasms. But those peculiar gusts of wind kept up. Blowing then dropping: blowing then dropping. Jack Kahui and I worked together in the afternoon, dismantling one end of the old line. The rest of the gang were at the top end, except the boss, who was checking the wiring at the main line connection. The sun had come out again, still weak, but we were enjoying it, knowing that it wouldn't last long. It was blowing quite strong now and we had to hang on to the arms of the pole ‘with our teeth’. Jack was sitting on one side of the pole and I was on the arm on the opposite side to him. Jack Kahui was a South Island Maori. From Invercargill. He had been with the Power Board for about ten years and was one of our top men. The little while I'd worked with him, I had learned quite a bit, just watching him. They say on the Power Board that the longer you are in the game the more careful you become. But in Jack's case I think it was not so. At times he was inclined to be careless. A showman. I suppose it was the Maori in his veins. Often he would lie across the wires. Just lie there, smoking. The wires burning beneath him. Two hundred and fifty volts. He used to pad himself up thick with clothing, and as long as you were not earthed you were all right. But it took a lot of nerve to do a thing like that. But as I say, Jack was pretty good. Sitting there a'top the pole that afternoon, Jack and I talked a lot about ourselves. He was married, he said, with a little daughter. I had not known this before. But Jack was such a hard case that I was not sure whether he was telling the

truth or not. We talked about the different places we had been. About the different jobs we'd had. He was a lot older than I. About thirty-seven. This was the first time we had really had a good talk together, although we were the only two Maoris in that particular gang. But mostly that day Jack would be singing. ‘IF’—the tune was just fresh out then. And everyone was singing it. It was a catchy little tune—singing in his high falsetto voice—‘If the world to me bowed, I'd still be a slave to you—’ ‘The boss wants you to give him a hand at the main line Jack’. The words broke across Jack's singing. We both turned at the sound of the voice. One of the men, Joe Mason, from the other end of the line, had come up without us noticing him. ‘He's taking off the earthings. Wants you to give him a hand’. ‘B–—’, Jack said, and threw the handful of old binding wire he had over the arm between us. ‘Yes, you carry on here Rangi,’ he said to me. ‘I won't be long’,—I won't be long. He climbed down and crossed the paddock to the wooden gate in the gorse hedge and I saw him climb through it and walk out on to the roadway before I looked away— If I had everything I'd still be a slave to you If I ruled the night Moon and stars so bright— The melody Jack had been singing kept running through my head. I was lonely now that Jack had gone. The clouds had blocked out the sun and a light drizzle was beginning to fall. I felt cold now and impatient for knock-off. Thinking about the hot soup and the warmth in the dining room. And all the men and the talk there. If I ruled the Earth What would life be worth If I hadn't the right to you? The two men came hurrying across the paddock with safety belts and wiring slung over their shoulders: leaning against the wind. I recognised Arthur Maker and Paul Churchill. There was something about them: the way they came, that would have told. Then I saw Joe Mason climbing over the old gate and running to catch up with them. ‘Your mate's dead’, Paul Churchill said. The words came to me very faint and broken by the wind. If the world to me bowed Still humbly I'd plead with you Joe Mason shouted something but the wind carried his voice away. I could see his mouth moving but there was no sound. Both of them kept yelling and trying to tell me something. And then I heard it again. ‘Your mate's dead Rangi’. The words were still muffled by the wind. At first I thought they were joking. Making fun of the boss. Calling him ‘your mate’ as we sometimes did. I looked down, their faces were drawn and serious. ‘What a thing to say’, I thought. ‘Even about old Tom’. Tom was the boss's name. Thomas James Wilkly, to be correct. They were right beneath the pole now. ‘Honest Rangi’, Arthur Maker said, ‘Jack's dead. He fell off the ladder. Broke his neck I think. He's over there’,—pointing in the direction of the main line connection—‘Do you want to see him?’ I knew they were not joking then. Suddenly, for the first time, I was aware of the height I was at. And in my hands the wires felt alive and jagged. ‘Jack!’ I said. ‘Yes. The boss's gone into town to get the cops. He said not to touch anything till he got back. He shouldn't be long now. Do you want to go over and see?’ I did not answer. Then after a while I said ‘No’. I did not want to see Jack now lying there in a heap over the ground cold and wet and still. And not really Jack Kahui any more.

If the world to me bowed I'd still be a slave to you. We waited under the canopy on the back of the truck till the boss came back from town. We were cold and shivering. When he did, he said, ‘You boys go on back to the camp now. There's nothing you can do by hanging around here. Just stay right out of it. If the police or anyone asks you anything, just say you weren't there when it happened. He looked off to the side, still facing us, but with his eyes looking out to the right. A way he had with him. ‘I don't want any of you boys to get mixed up in this. It's got nothing to do with you’. That night in the dining room having tea we were quite normal. We ate and talked and now and then we joked. But we did not mention Jack's name. Except now and then one of the men would shake his head and mutter to himself, ‘What a b––—. A real nice fella too.’ The reaction had not really set in yet though. The next day none of us would go to work. Saturday was our overtime and we got time-and-a-half in the morning and then double time in the afternoon. But none of us would go. The boss did not talk about his interview with the police and the insurance company men. He looked steady and calm enough. But beneath it we could see he was shaken. ‘A jolly good job too’, Joe Mason said. ‘I hope he gets in a proper stew over it’. Word soon got around about the trouble the boss had with the Insurance men. We were a private company. The only one in the country at the time and for a long time now the Government were trying to do away with us. Now they had their chance. And they were down on old Tom like wolves on the fold. ‘Did he have gloves? Was he wearing a safety belt? Was someone there with him when he went up the ladder?’ I can imagine the questions being popped at the boss. His tormentors waiting for the opening to pounce. Then they would not have to pay out the insurance, and the Company of L. G. Walker would be in existence no longer. But I had no sympathy then for the boss. A good job I thought, I hope they give him hell. He was away all Saturday and it wasn't until well after dinner that he arrived back. He went straight to his hut. The rest of us were in Arthur Maker's hut playing cards (five hundred), by the open fire, and listening to the late listeners' request on the radio. We heard the boss pass outside, then the door to his hut bang close. ‘I wonder how old Tom got on today’, Joe Mason said. ‘Six hearts’. ‘Seven spades’. ‘Seven hearts is higher than spades isn't it Rangi?’ ‘Yeah hearts then diamonds then clubs and spades in last’. ‘Old Tom can't be too good. He didn't look happy when I saw him’. Then the door opened and the devil himself came in. He had a writing pad in one hand and a pen between his teeth and he was wearing his cap. He did not wait for us but took the pen from his mouth. ‘I'm not very good at this sort of thing’, he said. Too quickly, I thought. ‘Does this sound all right to you boys?’ He shook the pad out and came across to the fire, holding the sheet down so that he could read it by the fire light. ‘It's a letter to Jack's wife’, he said. ‘Tell me if it's all right do you think?’ He began reading. ‘Dear Mrs Kahui—I am sorry to inform you that your husband Jack was killed yesterday afternoon in an accident. Death came instantly so I do not think there was any pain. All arrangements for his transportation home has been made. I will be accompanying the body down myself tomorrow. So there need be no worry on your part about that. ‘The men and I wish to send our deepest regrets and we are going to miss Jack very much as he was a very fine fellow. I remain, Yours sincerely, Thomas J. Wilky, Lines Foreman’. He looked up and around at us. ‘Do you think it's all right?’ he said. ‘Sure’, Joe Mason said. We were very awkward. ‘That's great Tom’. ‘Yeah, that's good Tom, honest’. The rest of us added our approval. Then we were quiet. Sitting still and awkward, waiting for the boss to speak. ‘I should have sent the letter early’, he said. ‘It might not get there in time.’ Then he added, ‘I sent a telegram away last night. Found her address in Jack's wallet. I only hope it's the right one. I bought a wreath this afternoon. I'm sending it down with the body. I said it was from the gang. Is that all right with you?’ ‘Gee, I wouldn't mind putting a few bob towards it’, Arthur Maker said. ‘How much did it cost?’ ‘Aw it was just a couple-a-quid’, the boss said. ‘It doesn't matter.’ ‘No I wouldn't mind putting a few bob towards it’, I said. ‘Hell that's not fair.’ I fumbled in my pocket for some money. ‘Here, here's a dollar. Is that enough?’ ‘Aw you boys shouldn't bother. It had nothing to do with you.’ But at our insistence he accepted a few bob from us each. ‘Just a couple-a-bob'll do’, he said. ‘How'd you get on today at the inquest?’ Peter Robertson asked. It was a question that had been burning on our minds all day. But it was asked in a different light now, without malice. ‘I believe every one was there trying to say that it was our fault.’ ‘Yeah’, Tom said. ‘The dashed insurance company didn't want to pay out. Tried to cook up all sorts of yarns about this and that and the other thing. Tried to say that it was a faulty ladder.

You know, I told Jack that I'd go up and take off the earthings myself. But he was half way up the ladder before I could do anything. He had his belt and gloves and everything with him.’ ‘The gloves wouldn't have made much difference up there would it?’ I said. ‘Not against eleven thousand volts.’ ‘No they'd be useless against that.’ The boss took out his tobacco and began rolling himself a cigarette, settling himself down on the floor against the wall by the fire. ‘I still don't know really how it happened. Except that being so short Jack would have had to step up another rung higher than we would have to. The wind must have blown him off balance and he must have reached out to grab the arm. You know how the wind was blowing that afternoon. The ladder was pretty slippery too. But I don't think he could have slipped. He had his rubber boots on. It must have been just as he was strapping on his belt.” I could picture that last fatal second. The sudden wild grab. The realization. The— ‘Hell’, I said. Spaced out at various intervals along the high tension line, or main line as it is better known, there are several connections that can sever the flow of power by throwing a lever and opening the arms of the connection out, like jaws. This deadens one side of the whole line and enables men to work that end safely. But to ensure against any danger at all, we attach what is known as earthing wires to the dead side of the line, so that if the switch happens to be accidentally on while we are still working the line, they run the power to earth. This ensures double safety. It was these wires that Jack Kahui had gone up to disconnect. It is always the last thing done on any job. Such as we were working then. ‘I was looking the other way’, the boss went on. ‘The next thing I heard this bump on the ground behind me. He landed head first. I thought he had broken his neck. But the doctor said that he was dead before he hit the ground. ‘Eleven thousand volts. Hell yes.’ ‘Do you think he felt anything Tom?’ ‘Nooa, he wouldn't have known what hit him. It'd be just like that.’ He snapped his fingers. ‘Is everything fixed now. In town I mean?’ Paul Churchill asked. ‘Yeah’, old Tom said. ‘But God they put up a fight. The b–—s. Talk about a suspicious lot. They'd always been after Les though you know.’ Les Walker was the owner of the Company. Tom was just the foreman. ‘They examined the belt, the gloves, the ladder, everything.’ ‘Why didn't you get us along to help. We could've backed you up.’ ‘Nooa, I didn't want you boys mixed up in it. It had nothing to do with you.’ Tom left not long after that and when he went we were very silent and still for a long time. Then Paul Churchill screwed up his mouth had raised his brows in a way that meant ‘We don't know nothing.’ And someone else said ‘Hell’. It was the first time the boss had ever talked with us like that. The next day one of the men from the other half of the gang which was working in Taupo at the time, arrived in the camp. We were staying in a paper mill camp at the time and we used to eat over in the dining room with the mill workers. That evening we had just finished tea and the new arrival met us in the porch of the dining room as we came out. ‘How's the old b–—taking it?’ he said. He had heard of the accident and the trouble that old Tom had been in over it. ‘I wish to hell he gets in the proper s–—over it’, he said. We did not look at him. And for a long time no one answered. Then Paul Churchill said, ‘Tom's O.K. boy. Yeah he's not a bad fella.’ ‘Like fun.’ Paul Churchill turned away and did not say anything and began walking towards the huts. And I heard him say as he went, not to us, but to himself. With his head down and shaking from side to side: ‘Yeah he's O.K., old Tom. He's not a bad fella.’

The writer of this article is talking about his experiences as a teacher; because of this, he must remain anonymous. He is a young primary school teacher, with many close friends among Maori people, who has taught for some years in a city school which has many Maoris among its pupils. We don't know whether or not he is right in what he says here; we print it as being one man's opinion, for which only he is responsible. We'd very much like to know what you think about his article, and whether or not you agree with it. We hope you'll write and let us know what you think about it; we'd like to publish some letters on the subject in our next issue.