THE TOP PUB.     by K.G. Bishop.
                         1927-2000

There weren't many in the pub, a very quiet day, Ossie, Noel, Mick, Noel and Fred were there. Hardly anyone else, Mick said "Hell it's quiet today, what's wrong,
Ngarie the barmaid said, "Two things, the price of beer has gone up and another thing old Charley Price committed suicide this morning.'
"Jesus suffering Christ, why he was only in here yesterday as large as life, what the hell did he commit suicide for"
"You tell me, he seemed OK yesterday."  she replied.
He wasn't one of the usual table gang, but a cheerful open sort of a bloke, not even a regular really, once a week maybe twice, maybe once a fortnight.  His wife had died of cancer a couple of years before and he had nursed right up to the end.
He had three kids, that he was very proud of, and so he should be, one, the oldest boy, was an accountant. The younger boy was a school teacher, that was a headmaster of a school up North somewhere. The girl was a music and Elocution teacher. We had met them all at one time or another, and then at their mothers funeral. 
He had been a waterside worker for a long time, but spoke very well, he had told us, that the Queens English was the best in the world.  It had a word somewhere to explain everything.  He was right.  No other nation has a language that is so correct and so hard to learn.  That is why during our wars with other countries, the spies sent to English speaking countries, were often very unsuccessful, unless they went to a school in either England, Australia or NZ.  Even New Zealanders are different.  In Britain every country seems to be different.  I've met people from other countries French, German's, Spanish, Chinese, Indian's who profess to speak fluent English.  Hell and Tommy they either speak it so well, or so badly we can't understand them.  Even our well educated Brotherhood of Maori and Pakeha there is a difference.  Very small and subtle at times but there.  Take the Dunedin based or Otago. The burrrn, the Christchurch, the morning.  Even Irrrish.  No matter how long since they've left there, It's still therre.
Anyhow Charlie had committed suicide. He was a gentlemen. We talked about him quietly, he was not really a mate of any of us, but a friend, there is a difference.
Harry told us, one night he'd run him home in his Taxi. Charlie never had the usual fare.  He was a dollars or so short.  But Harry told him, he wasn't charging him anyway.  He was going past that way home anyway.  Hell he wasn't for hire.  Charley was adamant.  He owed Harry.  Harry told him not to be so bloody silly, if he was in his private car and drove him home which he often did, he didn't charge for that.  But Charley said he wasn't in his private car he was in the taxi, and therefore he had to pay. The next day he walked up to Harry's and paid the difference.  Fair enough.  Next time Harry saw him in the pub he brought him a beer for exactly the same price, had a bit of a yarn and went home.  The next time they met, Charlie brought Harry the same sized beer, had a yarn and buggered off.  We all laughed.  He was like that, an independent old bastard.
We went to his funeral, he was cremated, his family came, a damned nice family.  We had a session, and Fred told his kids what an independent old swine he was.  The school teacher one, asked me how long I'd known him, I said about 10 years.  But I said I'd knew him, but I didn't, he was a very private man in many, many ways. We sort of knew his kids, we sort of knew he used to be a watersider, we knew where  he lived.  He had a good garden, an average sort of house, nothing flash, tidy and well kept.  That's about all. He always wore a grin, liked a joke.  That was it.
I asked the son about him, where he came from originally etc. etc.  The son didn't know, he thought I might have.  No Sorry, old chap. I don't.  He was on the waterfront at Tauranga or Mt. Maunganui to be exact.  How long he was there was a bit of a mystery.  Quite a long time, the kids grew up in Tauranga.
The accountant son bailed me up and asked if I knew him well.  I told him exactly what I'd told his brother.  I emphasised to both of them, he had a phobia about owing money.  I told them how on one occasion a mate had brought me some tools I wanted, and I never had the money on me to pay for them.  Charley was with me.  I said I was broke but would send him a cheque. Charley was aghast.  He paid, and I paid him the next day.  No problem. Yes, he sure had a problem about owing money alright.
Time went on and Charley naturally slid away from our minds.  More important issues arose.
Three or four month's later Ron came into the pub one night.  He was a happy go lucky sort of bloke Ron, always wore a grin, this night he was serious as all hell.  " This should interest you blokes, I'll read it out."
"Accountant before the court on fraud charges, $450.000.00 unaccounted for in the Imprest a/c.  It went on and on in detail.  The date he was arrested was the day before Charley committed suicide.  There was a stunned silence.
Charley's son was the accountant.
Poor old Charley.......

One day Harry come in and asked Noel  "Did you ever run across a bloke called Alex cross from Whakatane, or Opotiki, I'm not sure which"
Noel looked at Harry, grinned, and said "Hell Yes. where did you run across him."
"Oh, I took him over to Cambridge this afternoon he is over here to buy a trotting horse, He'd heard someone had a couple for sale."
Noel finished lighting his smoke, had a drink and said. "I've known him for 30 odd years. He's a real character, a nice bloke to talk too, but he is a pig headed bugger and a born optimist. He has a wood and coal business, or did have, and he cleans chimneys. He's not short of  a few bob.
He has a small farm, that he runs a few sheep and cattle on, he wouldn't any money out of it. It has a river that's a boundary on one side, it goes up about a half, hooks hard left then goes another quarter of a mile, Then runs into some rough rubbish, and his boundary stops there somewhere. Its an ideal training track, along the river, sandy soil, along by the first big bend is a trap where Alex had his first bid calamity.
Three was a big log just out from the bank, and the river turns there and goes left, on the other side of the log is a big hole.
Well Alex had a galloper, not a bad horse he had won a few races with him, but he had a row with his trainer, and trainer told him to take his horse home.
Alex reckoned he could train a horse as good as anyone, and it would be a lot cheaper. So he enlisted the help of Willie, a young Maori bloke who used to work for him, to help him train it. Willie like all young Maori's those days was a useful rider. He learnt to ride going to school I suppose, and liked to have a good gallop like anyone else.
Anyhow Willie told Alex he had a cousin who used to train horses, and he could perhaps give some advice, and that's when Charley arrived on the scene. Charley wasn't a spring chicken, he was about 60 maybe more, and he did know a horse and when it wanted walking, trotting, and pacework to build a horse up. So every morning it was down to the farm to work the horse.
Willie like a lot of Maori riders those days used to ride leaning back in the saddle with their feet level with the horses nose, and if their legs were long enough, even protruding ahead of the horse.  A good way to get a horse used to the shelves of a cart. But not exactly suitable for training a racehorse. "Smoky" the horse stable name objected to this for a start, and had a habit of shying around under Willy, and dumping him. But Willie was made of pretty stern stuff and stuck to his method, and eventually Smoky got used to it.
Eventually the morning arrived when Smoky was to do pace work down the river. Charley came along on a prad to work alongside Smoky. Willie didn't know what pace work was, but Charley explained it was a fast canter but not a gallop.
About 20 others turned up to watch, and so did I, Smoky was getting to be an institution around about, and all were going to make a killing when he won his next race.
So the two lined up and trotted around in a circle a few times and then turned down the river and started pace work.
Charley's horse was a bit slow and got behind so Charley sang out, "let him go a bit," Willie did exactly that, he let Smoky have his head, reached around and slapped him on the flanks with his hat and yelled out "Yahoo."
Smoky yahooed all right, he really smoked. Willie had no hope of holding him. They flew down the river, flat tack, until they came to the turn, no way could they turn that, they went straight ahead over the bank.
I hopped in my truck and tore down the river, with 20 odd hangers on hanging on wherever they could.
Things weren't too good, Smoky had hit the log and was dead. Willie was floating down the river, but several willing helpers dived in and pulled him to shore, he was alright, just a bit hazy, and had swallowed a lot of water which he soon got rid of with some help from his rescuers.
Then Alex arrived on the scene. "You useless bastard you killed my good horse, Jesus I should kill you too. Your sacked. I have a good mind to lay charges against you."
Anyhow several willing hands got the saddle and gear off Smoky, and he was left where he was, until the eels ate him or the next flood took him away.
Charley was quietly contemplating smoky and said quietly "I must bring my eel enaki down here, that horse, eels come for miles, to eat him." It's an ill wind that blows nobody any good."
Alex gave up horses for a while, then one day I met him in the local pub. "what do you know about trotters Noel." I told him I'd shod a few of them and they were more docile than thoroughbreds, didn't seem to need so much tucker, and a lot of them were owner trained.
He asked me a lot more questions, and a few days later asked me if I would go and have a look at a couple that were for sale. We went to Rotorua, and found the place. The seller was keen to sell, a bit to keen I thought. Anyhow I looked them over, especially their legs and feet. One wasn't too bad in the feet, a few wind galls on the legs but not to bad. The other was a hopeless case.
Alex was asking a lot of questions of the seller. He asked me what I thought and I told him one was OK. The other was a very bad footed horse. He said that's the one he liked the best. He was a better looking horse I will admit. But a hose is only as good as his feet. Alex was a pig-headed bugger as I've said. So he brought the bad footed one.
A few days later it arrived and Alex came and got me to come and have a look at him. His feet had deteriorated a bit more if anything. Alex reckoned he was a fine looking horse. I suppose he was for a trotter. To me trotter are not good looking horses. They  are different to thoroughbreds, who to me are a beautiful horse.
To give him credit he was a trier Alex, he'd got himself a sulky, and harness, but didn't have the foggiest idea of how to harness the horse up or put him in the sulky. I never  new a hell of a lot more, but I had used a horse and gig, and horse and cart. Alex hadn't. Anyhow we got the horse in the sulky and drove him around. To be honest trotters and paces are lovely movers. I hopped on the sulky and 'Prunes' that was his nickname, ambled around the paddock very nicely. Alex had a try and he was ecstatic, The grin on his face made it plain he was a convert. He made an appointment for me to shoe Prunes as soon as possible, and I suggested him putting a rail across the bad bend, which met with his approval.
When I shod Prunes his feet were worse than I thought. Damned shame, because he was a nice horse in every other way.
Willie and Charley were back with Alex. But no way was Willie allowed to drive Prunes. But unfortunately Prunes feet were impossible and the local vet told Alex Prunes was a hopeless case. Not long after Alex arrived home with another hopeful. He was quite a nice horse but it wasn't long before he joined Prunes in the back paddock.
And so it went on, until he got a pretty useful one. I don't know where he got him, but he did most things right and even won a trail after about 10 attempts. Alex had got hold of a driver who Alex listened to for a change.
Anyhow the stage was all set for a race at Claudlands.
Cairo the hero did pretty well. I went and saw him run, he ran 6thIthink, and was running on, The driver told Alex he'd go a good race next time out. Alex shouted all and Sundry and got a bit tiddly, and decided to head home. He had a bit of trouble finding Cairo he forget where his stall was. But finally found him, and loaded him on his float, while the cheering was going on for the finish of the race he left and headed home.
He was coming into Te Puke when he was stopped by a traffic cop, and a couple of police. Could they see his horse."
"Oh Sure, by God he is going to be a good horse, be careful with him."
The cops looked the horse over, and said to Alex "How long have owned this horse" "Nearly a year now", Are you sure this is your horse"< "Course I'm sure, don't you think I know my own horse" "Anyhow the police suggested they take the horse somewhere  where they could unload him, and examine him properly, In the meantime the traffic cop nicely asked Alex to blow up a bag.
They went into the Te Puke railway station where there was good light and unloaded Cairo. "Now are you sure this is your horse" "well he does look a bit different in this light, but I'm sure it's Cairo. The Sergeant took Alex to one side, Has your horse got any white markings. Yeah He's got a white hind leg, and a white star on his forehead."
"Well this horse has two white front feet and no star on his forehead." Alex was bewildered "Who the hell would take the white marking off my horses head and put another white mark on his foot, it doesn't make sense."
The sergeant suggested it might be a good idea to take the horse back to Claudlands. "What the hell for he's had a hard race, he's had enough for one day."
But the sergeant was adamant. "We have every reason to believe, This horse is not yours, in fact we have a lot of evidence to suggest you have stolen this horse."
Alex went crook 'OK we'll go back but someone will pay for this."
He went to get in his truck, "Err, No you come with me the constable will drive your truck."
On the way back the sergeant and Alex chatted away amicably enough.
When they arrived at Claudlands there was a group around a stall, and the Sergeant steered Alex to the group. There was a horse in the stall, with a cover on, the Sergeant asked Alex if he would take the cover off the horse and he did, Did he know he know the horse. "No he didn't, if he didn't know better he would think he was Cairo. So Cairo was unloaded and brought over. "Hell they looked alike didn't they" a man Alex didn't know looked at the white marking on Cairo's neck the freeze brand. Looked at a paper, "Yes this is Plumb Bob. Alex was in bother. Plumb Bob was entered for the bother. Plumb Bob was entered for the big race. and when he went missing had to be scratched. He was a top horse. No one saw any humour in the situation at all, even Alex saw no humour in it, at all. Worse when the Traffic cop drew up spoke to the sergeant and came and told Alex, he was over the limit. Did he want a blood test.
He lost his licence for a while, got hauled over the coals by the trotting club, probably disqualified for awhile, he's a character all right. But now he is looking for another horse. You have to hand it to him.

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