The horse yard

Tu Tangata, Issue 13, 1 August 1983, Page 26

The horse yard

William Perry

O nga tau ki muri

The Mangatu carpenters twenty years ago were an industrious, if somewhat characteristic landmark of the countryside. Their presence at the Whatatutu watering-hole at ten past five was the way the publican synchronised the grand father clock. Trend setters, in like manner they also heralded the bell before closing time when Charlie Wade would be forced to close the bar.

Buddy Smith would be forming a scrum, using fifteen keen young shepherds, tree planters, roustabouts and shearers. The whole meelee would burst forth through the bar doors and erupt into a boiling mass of bucking horse flesh and humanity into the horse yard. Sweating, writhing bodies would be accompanied by wild yells of encouragement and unprintable adjectives from the incensed audience. From their vantage points at the unused hitch rails or perched precariously on their crates of ‘Gold-Top’ the less-than sober onlookers would vent their spleen upon the gladiators.

Inevitably a punch would be thrown. The mood would change. A serious atmosphere would develop. Reasoning would be a waste. Buddy would have to use his 18 stone and great mass of influence on them. I cannot explain the reason, but the team would treat Buddy as the common foe and their intentions made very clear. Working like Captain America he would dispatch them like pins in a bowling alley. Some of them would roll under the horses to receive further treatment from that quarter, much to the delight of the drinkers. The contents of a bottle would be used to try and revive a fallen comrade. Often having a drowning effect rather than a revival one.

When this horse-play had exhausted itself it would be time for serious drinking and bragging. The talk would encompass shearing, dog trails, local rugby, pig hunting and the envy of Tommy, the single school ma’am. This was almost typical of a week day.

Saturdays were better. More exciting and always a treat. More people too of course. All the single shepherds, shearers, tree planters, roustabouts and general wasters from the Mangatu and neighbouring stations came in to the Whatatutu watering-hole to slake

their thirsts and catch up on the latest. The married men would be well represented too. The pub would burst to overflowing.

Try to imagine a Saturday in the rugby season when the arch-enemy and rivals from Te-Karaka came for a home game. Drinking would be carried on in the horse-yard. No matter who won the game on the field, the losers (usually Mangatu) would have to ‘square up’ off the field. The horse yard, with its bare patches and manure always became the arena or venue.

It often started out as a two man contest of even strength. It would be better entertainment than if the pub burnt down. People would pour out of the pub on the guise of going to ‘stop that bloody fight’ and end up in it. A western movie with John Wayne fighting his way to victory would have no sequel. Maori oaths, both new and old, listed and unlisted in the dictionary would fill the air. The losers of course would be the horses. I thought I would make a fortune once as a salesman to replace torn shirts and ‘broken pants’.

The toilet tap was always useful to slice away the blood from bent noses and to bathe a closed eye or wash out a mouthfull of broken teeth. Fat lips were common and the subject of much derision. Painful too when you laughed. Perhaps the most serious thing that occurred would be Henry Matenga’s dozen smashing down inside his leggins. How he escaped a scratch is a miracle. Two frothy boots-full of ‘goldtop’ would be the reward. ‘Neat one eh?’ he would hiccup.

Sometimes the bone of contention would be horsemanship. Officials appointed, the rules read out or made up on the spot to suit the occassion. The bet would be a ‘crate’. Loser to shout. This race would be better than watching Joe Louie fighting to retain his title off Ezzard Charles. The horses usually finished the race and then some. They would find their own way back to Maia or Rikki.

Henry once raced a motor bike carrying a dozen in his leggings and a nine gallon on the pommel of his saddle. He reckons he won because Buddy hit a pot-hole and lost his carton into the river. Sometimes when talk was short a

game of ‘two-up’ was started. This was like the rugby on Saturdays and had the same results. A few heads were banged together, the odd kick in the bum from a frightened horse was given and a bath needed. Whatever happened in that horse-yard for whatever reason, provided a talking point for everyone.

It was a great testing ground for the young bucks who tried hard to prove themselves. Black-eyes heal quick when you’re 19 or 20. A fight that delighted everyone, was between two old men who shall remain nameless. They too were advised to settle their differences in the horse-yard. Both were three score years and five. Vigorous punching tired both gentlemen. The fight was stopped. They went inside to refresh themselves. Five minutes later they reappeared to continue on with the settlement. In the second round, one of the contestants cut his hand on the teeth of the other and fractured a tooth.

in the process. Three days later the fellows hand was infected and required medical attention. The man hit was suffering from pyuria. That was a talking point for a long time. Constable Len Thygood of Te-Karaka was a mighty footballer and a man of divine wisdom. A ruckus in the horse yard always found him on a special assignment in Gisborne or Matawai. However, a raid on the horse yard would eventuate when two tired carpenters would be discussing the last pig-hunt over a beer. Backed up by the publican, Len would bravely challenge the two petrified souls. ‘‘Right you two, tresspassing on hotel property after six o’clock is a serious offence. Names please? Addresses? Employed? I’m going over the road to the car. If you’re still here when I return you both spend the night in the Te-Karaka cooler.” Deeming withdrawl the better option, the two errant sons depart to fight an-

other day, swearing that, ‘we’ll knuckle him next Saturday in the Waikohu trials.’ The many long stories told by Banjo to an attentive audience on tenterhooks in anticipation of an amusing end are pearls in themselves. The only man who could make grown men cry without hitting them. A master story teller. Memories of the horse-yard are sweet. The rails are gone. The bent and twisted corrugated-iron fence is replaced by a nice picket fence. The smell of 80, horse flesh and fresh dung no longer hangs on the air of long summer evenings. New lawn and shrubs beautify where empty bottles once lay. The advent of ten o’clock closing and affluence brought Kingswoods to replace palamino’s, Falcons to replace apaloosa’s. So the horse yard antics disappeared into antiquity and into the memories of the balding, greying koro’s of the horse era.