Summertime Robbery

Nathaniel scraped enough pennies together to buy a His Master’s Voice Cabinet Grand Gramophone with two records, hits of the year 1913; When Irish Eyes Are Smiling by Chauncey Olcott, and Daddy has a sweetheart and Mother is her name, by Elsie Baker.

It wasn’t the first gramophone in the seaside village of Hampden, but news travelled fast when he carefully unloaded it from his wagon and a steady stream of visitors arrived at his house to gawk at the marvellous machine.

Of course he puffed with pride at the attention he was receiving.

By Christmas that year the drought had browned the grasses and dulled the green of the trees. The equinox Northwesterlies had parched the spring growth. Rainwater tanks had long dried and every household had to cart water from the Big Kuri Creek, which was one and a half miles north, and running low.

Most of the pioneer homes had no ceiling board to absorb the radiated heat from the roofing iron. In the heat of the day, and even at night, it was unpleasant to stay indoors - cooking over an open fire or, if a householder could afford it, a modern coal range added to the indoor temperature.

There was no mass exodus, but by Christmas Day most of the village population had drifted down to the beach where the air was cooler and the cooking fires were in the open air. A morning’s stroll down to the Moeraki Boulders was refreshing and fresh flounder could be caught on handlines with small hooks.

The more adventurous joined some of the fishermen who sailed out from the small port of Moeraki.

Dixie Muldrew was the first find that their house had been robbed! She was sent home by her mother, Meg to fetch some salt and she found that the door was ajar. She thought nothing of it because few locked their doors, but the blue patterned jug and washbowl were not on the kitchen bench!

The town constable, Ingles Galbraith was called to investigate but he found no clues.

Two days later, Pat Milne went home to his secreted tobacco stash where he found that the Havana cigar gifted to him by his employer had vanished. He was saving it for the New Year’s celebration.

Ingles looked around and suggested that a swagger must have passed through the village unseen.

On New Year’s Eve Nathaniel was talked into taking his new gramophone down to the beach because the village folk grew tired of Whistler Sam’s fiddling the same tune.

Nathaniel was devastated to find that the gramophone was gone and more so when Constable Ingles said nothing could be done until morning.

An unenthusiastic Nathaniel rejoined the festivities, but only for a short time, he decided to go back to the house in case the robber returned.

The night was quiet save for the hilarity at the beach. There was no sign of a robber.

The same quiet pervaded on the second and third nights and on the forth night, Nathaniel grew bored and heavy lidded with is guarding and allowed himself to doze off.

He was startled by a scratching and bumping sound at the door! He sat for a moment waiting for his eyes to become accustomed to the faint light the quarter moon provided. His heart was beating, drumming in his ears.

He could see light angling through the joints of the door’s boards and a fainter light at the gap below the door.

Nathaniel stood at the door, waiting.

The door burst open and he was dazzled by the light, never-the-less he thrust a big fist and hit something soft!

A bull’s-eye lantern fell one way and the robber fell backwards with a grunt! Legs in the air!

By the light of the lantern, Nathaniel could see he had belted Constable Ingles who sat wiping blood from a split in his bulbous nose.

‘I were only doin’ me duty!’ Ingles lamented, ‘Since the robberies I have been checking that doors are closed and that!’

‘Sorry Ingles,’ Nathaniel apologised, ‘I thought you were the robber.’

‘Not your fault son,’ the policeman replied, ‘I have been out every night since New Year’s Eve, I reckon the robber has long gone. A swagger probably.’

Nathaniel decided to rejoin his family at the beach, the night was another hot one.

Ingles went home to nurse his split nose. Washing in a blue patterned bowl remarkably like Meg Muldrew’s.

Later he sat back in a leather chair just like Ross MacLean’s.

He lit a Havana cigar.

He filled a cut crystal glass with brandy from a decanter just like Pete Willets'.

He closed his eyes the strains of When Irish Eyes Are Smiling softly played on a gramophone remarkably like Nathaniel’s.