Madame Le Cren

Mary Le Breton’s father was the manager of a Canterbury high country sheeprun and because of the isolation and harshness of life there, she became adept at survival and self-reliance. She was an only child, taught that her ancestry could be traced back to Jersey and a stonemason. Her great grandfather had come out to New Zealand, fibbing that he was as an agriculture worker but soon after arriving he set up a drapery store, which was his chosen craft.

Before she began correspondence school studies, Mary accompanied her father on the mountainous foothills, where he taught her survival skills in the wilderness and about animal behaviour, both domestic and wild. He was a patient, kind teacher. She has the ability to whistle, which made learning how to work sheepdogs much easier. As soon as she could lift a lamb, she held them for her father to mark. He removed their tails, if they were ram lambs, he castrated them and finally nicked a piece out of the ear, which was an identification mark specific to the run. She could ride a pony before she was four years old. She regularly kindled a fire and boiled the billy for tea by the time she was six.

By the time she was fourteen, the farm hands and shearers were ogling her, tongues lolling like her faithful Alsatian, Fred’s did when he was happy to see her. Some of them tried to herd her on her own like stags do, but Mary would have none of that, nor would Fred! From an early age she had seen the rams at work, she recorded which cow the bull had served and she was still keen ‘help the Clydesdale stallion in’ like her father had done, but she had no interest in being served by randy young itinerants!

Mary was a good shot, her father had taught her to shoot every rabbit she clapped eyes on using the ancient but accurate .22 single shot and at sixteen she would scout the southerly slopes with a .303 slung over her shoulder hunting red deer. The mother used to hang the venison for a week before roasting it and garnishing it with apple or apricots from the orchard. Mary’s talent for stalking could make herself invisible to the deer.

Three days before her eighteenth birthday, Mary sailed for France. Her grandmother needed company. Mary’s uncle had been looking after her but he had left to join a hush-hush underground movement, formed in response to the German sabre-rattling. Sure, there were other family members who could care for Mamie, rather that call on a girl from New Zealand, but Mary’s father thought it was time for the young woman to spread her wings away from the high country.

Mamie lived to the south of Paris in a rural area and Mary soon picked up the language as the young do. She found an old pump-action .22 that had been in Mamie’s house for as long as she could remember. It wasn’t as accurate as the old single shot still, she managed to supplement their diet with pigeons and rabbits. As time went on she felt somewhat threated when Germany invaded Poland, and although the French didn’t seem overly concerned, Mary decided to stock up on ammunition, hiding caches in many places.

June 1940, four years after Mary arrived in France, German soldiers marched into Paris and it wasn’t long until Mary and Mamie heard stories of atrocities handed out by the Germans! Caring for Mamie wasn’t very taxing for a capable young woman like Mary which gave her ample spare time to reconnoitre the surrounding countryside so she reckoned she could cope with the German invasion, which anyway, wasn’t expected to last very long.

The stories filtering to Mary gave her an itch that needed scratching. Locals were forming an underground network that she wasn’t totally privy to, nor did she want to be, but she did want to witness for herself what was going on in Paris. She decided that she could cycle there in two days, stopping on the way at Cecile’s house. Cecile was an old school friend of Mamie’s. It was there Mary saw her first German soldiers, they had taken the large grand house over as a local command post. Warily, she parked he bicycle some distance away and stealthily found her way to the house. Four soldiers were removing the bodies of two civilians, one Mary recognised as Cecile and the other, she presumed was a servant. She regretted not bringing the .22 with her.

Mary could see that other people were hurriedly passing by, some on foot others on bicycles, so she guessed that she would be safe enough to cycle past. The Germans were too busy to notice her, but she guessed that state of affairs would not last for long. Later she found an abandoned shed to hide in for the night and bandicooted a vegetable garden and an egg from a chicken coop to fend off hunger pangs. Sleep didn’t come easily, she was still angry about the murder of Cecile and she mulled over the idea of abandoning her foray into Paris. But curiosity and determination got the better of her.

Mary abandoned her bicycle and melted into the alleyways of Paris. The Germans were noisy and there were grey uniforms everywhere. Red flags and banners with black swastikas were fluttering in the breeze. The only civilians she saw were a group of men being frog-marched towards a large building. It was a spectacle, but unpleasant for her. She had seen enough and turned to make her was out of the city. An approaching column of grey soldiers blocked her path, so she ducked down a different alley where she was horrified to come upon a dozen or so civilian corpses scattered randomly across the cobblestones. Gingerly she began to step through them. All had been shot in the head. She noticed the pale skin of a naked girl and after she passed, she heard a muffled groan!

The girl was barely fourteen, she was battered and bruised and there was dark blood between her legs. Mary wrapped her flimsy coat around the girl and tried to get her to stand up, but the poor child didn’t have the strength. Mary propped the girl against a wall, and doubled back to where she heard a horse whinney. There were four horses stabled there with a shingle guard, who was slumped on a stool dozing in the afternoon sun. She slipped silently into the stall. She chose a quiet dun mare, took a bridle from a peg on the wall and quietly bridled the horse. After slipping the door-bolt, she coaxed the other horses out. As they whinnied and trotted off, the alarmed guard ran after them, shouting, which made them bolt. In the confusion, Mary rode the mare to where she had left the girl.

Wiry and strong as Mary was, she still found lifting the girl awkward. Once mounted, the pair rode a roundabout trip home avoiding patrols, not even trusting civilians who could dob her in for food or other advantage. At home Mamie tried soothing the girl, tending her as grandmothers might. The girl told part of her harrowing experience, she had been raped and abused by a bespectacled officer who wore a black uniform. Mary had seen some of those uniforms going into the big building where the civilian men were being frog-marched.

The danger of keeping the mare and the military bridle was not lost on Mary, she had released the mare the day they arrived back and burnt the bridle. After hearing the girl, Pruette’s story Mary, felt the resentment and indeed hatred well up within her making her determined to do what she could to avenge the girl and girls like her. She needed transport and conceived a plan. There were often couriers on motorcycles with sidecars using a nearby tarred road. She was going to get a motorbike, a helmet, goggles and a greatcoat! To do this she chose a spot a long way from the house, so as not to arouse suspicion. Close to the tarred road, was a house that had caught fire some years ago and had been long abandoned. However, she need the motorbike to stop or at least slow down, reasoning that the rider needed to become curious rather than suspicious.   

There was a slight bend in the road where a rail fence extended to the very verge of the road. Mary removed her underwear and hung them on the fence as if displaying them and then secreted herself in the abandoned house, .22 at the ready. At least an hour passed but when she heard the approaching motorbike she readied herself. She was cool and resolute, Pruette’s broken body prominent in her mind. The passenger in the sidecar was the first to spot the underwear and pointed. The bike slithered to a stop. Mary’s aim at the rider’s temple was a little off, because bullet went in his ear, but the result was the same, he dropped like a stone! Mary pumped another round in the chamber, ready, but the passenger was bent over the dead man, his helmet protecting him. Mary waited. The sidecar rider stood rigid, eyes wide with fear. The bullet was off again, just creasing his temple, but knocking him down. Cursing that the rifle needed adjusting, Mary ran to the soldier who was unconscious and finished him. The motor on the bike was still running.

Mary put the overcoats, helmets and boots into the sidecar and pulled the bodies into the house, covering them with some charred planks. She collected her underwear, scuffed over the drag marks and rode the motorbike to a copse of birches she had already staked out as the place to hide the vehicle. By bending the fore-sight on her rifle, and after a few shots, she was more satisfied with its accuracy. Later at home she spoke softly to Pruette to get a better description of the pervert-rapist. Besides a black uniform, he wore metal-rimmed glasses and his mouth was on a skew, perhaps caused be a scar on his left cheek.

The motorbike was too difficult for Mary to kick-start so until she could find someone to lengthen the lever, she decided to travel into Paris on foot. She judged that it would be safer. The trip took five days, a day longer than planned because she had to avoid more patrols and on three occasions, sporadic gunfire. She had bread and cheese in a pack with her as a reserve, but her mainstay was stolen food and once a pigeon she shot and cooked over a fire. She assumed correctly there was enough gunfire and smoke around to disguise her activities.

The building opposite the one that turned out to be the Gestapo headquarters was occupied, so Mary was unable to secure a vantage point there although that had been her plan, but the building two down seemed to be abandoned. She climbed to the second floor. Within an hour, she saw what she thought was the man Pruette had described. He walked boldly out of the building and into an open-topped car. No chance of a shot.

Before darkness set in, Mary checked the building to be sure there was nobody hiding or any other dangers. It was clear. She found a back door, which she would use for her escape route, it was locked but easily kicked open. She eased it back into place and returned up the stairs and settled down for the night after pulling down some curtains to wrap around herself. The building was an abandoned office, but with few working amenities, which meant she had to use another room as a toilet.

Despite the curfew the night was noisy with the clanking and banging of German occupation, but she shut it out and slept for about four hours. In the early hours she exercised and walked around the room so wouldn’t be stiff and would be alert when the man returned to his office in the morning. He was out of the car and into the building in a flash! No chance of a shot. Ten minutes later, he was back out when a black uniformed man stopped him. While he was being spoken to, he lit a cigarette. The bullet struck him on the neck, severing his spinal cord.

Mary made her escape through the rear door! She had a couple of hours lead, because the Germans thought the shot came from the building directly opposite and lost time interrogating the people there! They eventually found Mary’s bed. She had given no thought that she had left markers that identified the shooter as female. But still they got it wrong. A note dropped on the floor by someone before the occupation had a name on it: Madame Le Cren. They determined the shooter was one Madam Le Cren!

Special

While a lot of folk who consider themselves special, may be endowed with large egos and a lack of humility, the most importantly special people remain inconspicuous and usually special to only a few. As far as Henry was concerned, his Mum was always special, even though he didn’t really think about it when he was a nipper. He was the youngest of four siblings, the baby, which rightly entitled him to a certain amount of leniency. The seven years difference between his younger sister and his older brother, taught the family some lessons in child rearing. The girls were excited about their new brother and made a huge fuss of him, picking him up at the slightest whimper and popping treats into him to keep him happy. The outcome of that was the young bugger became very demanding! So when Henry came along, lesson learned, they left him alone!

Henry’s Dad owned the first milk pasteurising plant in the city as well as the first bottling plant, so his Mum was kept busy cooking breakfast for the crew and providing smoko for them as well. She also served door customers whenever they called, which meant Henry was called in to help when she was busy. The gallon teapot was a bit much for him to carry, but he made it out to the smoko table, which was a tad high for him causing hot water to spill from the pot! He lost control of the thing and it tipped over his shoulder! The scar resulting from the scald lasted until he was well into his thirties! But Mum was as ever compassionate and knew how to treat it.

The day Henry disappeared had Mum frantic! The workers had gone home and the dairy was supposed to be closed up, but the side door was ajar, so Mum quietly pushed it open, fearful of what she might encounter. Henry was in there, suck fast – by his tongue! After the pasteurising process, the milk was cooled quickly by running it over a refrigerated, corrugated cooler. Henry had found some frozen milk on it and took a lick! His tongue immediately stuck to it! Poor old Mum rushed around to find old Bob Brown who chipped the iced milk away with his pocket knife setting Henry free! Mum fretted about the filth she suspected was on Bob’s old pocketknife, because he was a stranger to the bathroom!

Mum had made a batch of scones for the workers, buttered them and dolloped raspberry jam on them. Mrs Fawlds called for some cream and the customary gossip, so Henry took the tray of scones out to the dairy. Danger! Someone had dropped a quart bottle and not picked it up. Shoes were an expensive luxury for kids so as usual the lad padded about in bare feet. Because of the tray, he couldn’t see were his feet were going, so he stood on the cutting edge of the broken bottle! The scones were ok, but the laceration was longitudinally and deep! The trucks were all away so they couldn’t take him to Doc Young, so good old Mum sat him with his foot in the kitchen sink, soaking it in condies-crystal-water. It was the only disinfectant that she had other than the awful dairy stuff. He dripped blood on her white pine bench! The bench she carefully scrubbed with sandsoap to make white as snow. She was proud of the clean whiteness. But did Mum mind the blood-splats? Not a bit! He was happy-chappy a few days later when Granddad called and saw him soaking in the sink, as he did three times a day. The usually frugal old man gave him a half-crown! Mum let him keep it too!

To help foster his interest in nature, Mum bought Henry a microscope. She had put up with him bringing all manner of insects inside and sometimes birds – waxeyes mainly! She seemed to be as interested as he was. In the garden, she explained to him what the plants were and how to tend them, what to feed them on. Dad believed in cow manure, but Mum said it didn’t suit everything! She taught him to prune the roses because whenever she was scratched by a thorn, she festered and became unwell (something about her blood), so in no time the job became his. When people admired the show of roses, she always gave Henry the credit.

Mum was knocked up badly when her bag became caught on the handrail on the side of the tram! She was dragged a hundred yards or so until the strap gave way! Henry helped with the household chores while she convalesced, though she was back into it after a few weeks, but her back had been damaged. He used to accompany her into town during the early days of her treatment from a chiropractor. Henry agreed with Dad that he was a bloody quack, because she never showed any improvement. They were right, she finally gave up after seeing him for seven troublesome years!

Musicals and live performances were one of Mum’s pleasures, and Henry was the only one in the family able to accompany her. He enjoyed the shows as much as she did, it was sort of a shared experience. She always bought a programme and whenever Henry returned home in later years, the programmes were brought out and they would relive those times together. The family thought they had tricked Dad into buying a radiogram, but in reality he had happily acquiesced. Mum was thrilled and so  whenever there was a new show or after attending one, Henry and Mum visited the record shop. 

When Henry went off to forestry school, Mum was sad to be losing her companion, but she bit her lip and made sure he was kitted out with enough warm clothes, blankets and anything else she thought might be handy. She hand-embroided his initials and everything! A year later, Dad retired so he took Mum for the only holiday they had ever had together and the pair were so excited on their return, sharing their joy with the family. Four months later Dad suffered a brain aneurism and was gone. During the grieving process Henry wrote letters and arrived home as much as he could. In return, Mum washed his clothes and mended them, keeping busy helped with the grieving.

Dad always used to call time, ‘the enemy’, and it is. The years take their toll on all of us and Mum, special or not, wasn’t spared. The dragging of the tram didn’t help her body, nor did those years of hard physical work. All housewives worked hard physically back in the day, boiling clothes in a copper and turning the handle of the wringer, beating carpets and being responsible for a tribe of kids. And thirty years alone isn’t at all good for the mind.

After she put a newspaper on top of the oven and it began to smoke, she asked to go into care. It is a moot point if care is quite the correct word, Mum was a patient and respected as one, which that’s all that can be expected in those places. Each time Henry visited, he saw that his Mum’s condition was in a slow decline. Failing speech, memory loss, loss of mobility, loss of confidence – the same that will befall most of us.

Henry’s Mum, that special person to him, was ninety three when she put her Woman’s Weekly down, closed her eyes and forgot to breathe.    

No Such Thing as Free Chocolates

Henry had been handling money all his young life, and although he was never told so, he knew it all belonged to his Dad’s business. His Dad was a dairyman who collected milk from dairy farms, pasteurized and bottled it and sold to other vendors for their rounds. Henry’s Dad also had his own round, delivering the milk from about midnight to 8:00am.

Back in the day, his customers, that is householders, left their empty bottles out with the correct amount of money in one of them in return the milkman left the appropriate amount of milk – or cream. People seemed more honest then, although there had been cases of looting. Henry’s Dad used to keep the takings in a milk bottle sitting in crate handy to the driver’s door of the truck, bottles full of money, usually coins were kept behind the driver’s seat

Monday was collecting day, the day Dad climbed on his old rusty bike to collect from customers who preferred to pay weekly. There were even a few who paid on a monthly basis too. Mum and Henry counted all the bottle-money on Mondays, spread out over the kitchen table. There were ha’pennies stacked in piles of twenty-four to make one shilling. The pennies in stacks of twelve to make one shilling. The thruppences were counted into piles of eighty; sixpences were counted into piles of forty; shillings stacks of twenty, florins in stacks of ten, half crowns in stacks of eight – each stack or pile made one pound. (No wonder we were good at arithmetic!) Mum counted the notes and stacked them with King George’s face up and looking to the left, she rolled the stacks, wrote a small chit then fixed a rubber band around them.

Henry carefully wrapped the coin stacks in newspaper, and put the smaller coins in small canvas bags with Bank of New Zealand written on them. While Henry was busy doing this, Mum filled in the deposit slip for the bank. All was placed in a big canvas bank-bag and Henry biked the six miles to the Sydenham bank with it. His instructions were to always go to the teller window Curly was in. Why, he had no idea. While Henry was off to the bank his Dad had an hour’s snooze.

Dad sold the milk collection and bottling side of the business and the family moved house, but not far away. A new manager’s family moved into the dairy house, and Henry was expected to welcome his son, Alan to the area and help him settle in. Therefore this Alan rooster accompanied Henry when they went with Dad, or Dad’s foreman, Sid, to fill up with petrol or do other jobs in the milk truck.

Alan seemed a generous young lad because he started bringing Mum gifts. Usually sweets, or sometimes fruit and on the odd occasion even boxes of chocolates! Those flash Nestlé ones! Henry had never seen so many luxury items. Mum never ate any of the gifts Alan brought to her, instead she stored them in a cupboard – probably for Christmas, Henry thought. But they ate the fruit.

On several occasions Mum asked how Alan had managed to find the money to buy all the stuff because it was just five years since VJ Day and luxury items were scarce and unaffordable. Alan’s answer was always the same. At Valley Road, the trams arrived in doubles, but the hill up Hackthorn Road is too steep for two carriages, so one was dropped off while the single one climbed up to the Sign of the Takahe and then returned. Alan apparently used to search the left-behind carriage for money the passengers had dropped. On several occasions Mum sent Henry off on his own to Valley Road to search for money in the carriage. He found none, not a penny and assumed that Alan had been there before him each time. Mum disagreed because she said each time Alan was away with his own father when Henry had gone on his search.

One Saturday, Henry with Alan in tow, went with Sid to Sampson’s petrol station. To Henry’s puzzlement Mum had told him to keep a watchful eye on Alan. Henry forgot and climbed out of the cab for Stan the mechanic to ruffle his hair, but quickly hopped back in to catch Alan in the act of digging his fingers into the money-bottle!

‘What’re you doing with the money bottle?’ Henry asked, wondering how he had found out about the bottle behind the seat!

Alan put a finger to his lips and cast a look at Sid, making him the enemy and thus, Henry a conspirator.

‘Is this where you find your money?’ asked Henry suspiciously.

Alan nodded affirmation. He didn’t look guilty in the slightest, but there was no chatter on the way home.

‘Mum, Alan’s been pinching money out of Dad’s money bottle!’ Henry said as soon as they were alone.

‘Are you sure?’ Mum looked Henry in the eye. ‘I thought as much!’

‘I caught him doing it and he admitted it.’ replied Henry firmly.

 

During his young life Henry had seen poverty, the James family of fourteen down the road were poor and Jessie, (yes, Jessie James) was a good mate, but they didn’t steal. This was the first case of theft he had witnessed. He didn’t associate with Alan any more.

‘There’s no such thing as free chocolates.’ Became a much-used family saying from then on.