BACKBLOCKS SPIRIT.

Auckland Star, Volume LXVI, Issue 307, 28 December 1935, Page 1 (Supplement)

BACKBLOCKS SPIRIT.

CHRISTMAS EVE CELEBRATION THE TRIP INTO TOWN.

(By M.E.S.)

The lorry was a great, heavy affah with a green canvas cover, every available space crowded with rattling cream cans and a multitude of parcels. "How on earth do you remember to drop them at the right boxes?" asked the stranger, and the driver smiled. "I'm used to the business," he confided. "Of course a new chum gets a bit mixed and is apt to drop the baby food at the bachelor's camp and the beer at the parson's gate. But I've been at the job a long time an' I'm used to the people an' what they're likely to want. You see, I cover over 100 miles a day and most of the folks on the road want some-

thing." "What are those notes you're putting in each can? Bills?" asked the stranger, and noticed that suddenly the driver looked a little shy and self-con-scious. "No, not bills. ■ Christmas ain't no time for bills. Those was invitations, so to speak," Then, encouraged by the sincere interest in the other's face, he became suddenly confidential, as is the way of lonely men when they find a sympathetic listener.

"I've got to know these folk well this last few years," he said. "Come to that, I've hardly set eyes on some that lives a long way back. But they send me notes and. when a chap's got all day to sit and think as he drives, he gets to make out a good deal about the people who write them notes. They've been havin' a pretty poor time these last years —bad land an' poor prices an' so far away an' all. Thought I'd like to do somethin' for 'em at Christmas, but I'm pretty short myself and I couldn't think of anything for a time. Then the idea comes—why not give 'em a free trip to town on Christmas Eve? So 1 wrote these an' I'm putting 'em all in their cans to-night so as to give 'em plenty of time to get ready."

The Invitations. The stranger looked at the sheet of rough paper the driver proudly handed to him. "Any cream suppliers is invited to have a free trip to town on Christmas Eve. The lorry will be at the end of the road at 6 p.m. Returning about midnight. Children welcome." The writing and composition were obviously a, laborious affair and the stranger thought of the hours it must have taken the tired driver to write those letters when at last he reached his bachelor home at night. The whole idea was novel to him, for he came from the towns, where it is the custom for the employee rather to expect than to bestow Christmas gifts, so that he looked with renewed Fnterest. at the pleasant, eager face of the driver and from him to the wild country all about, the ranges of bushcovered hills, the deep gullies, the scant Hearings and primitive farmhouses to which these invitations were to go. Tineas true generosity, genuine, thoughtful human kindliness.

"Care to come yourself?" ventured the driver. "I can squeeze you in and maybe you'd like to see a backblocks Christmas and the way they keep it in the little towns." "There's nothing I'd like more," said the stranger heartily, realising suddenly that he meavit it with all hi-; heart. He wanted above all things to bo one of that curious backblocks party on Christmas Eve.

When he met the lorry at the appointed place and time he was astonished at its transformation, for all the interior was close packed with long planks resting upon benzine boxes, and festooned from the roof and upon the bonnet of the lorry were long streamers of gaily coloured papers, bunches of paper flowers, nestling coyly in little clumps of greenery. "Why, how many do you expect?" asked the stranger, glancing at the empty seats within. "There'll be a good turn-out," the driver told him, "an' it would never do to disappoint any. You'll see we'll be well filled."

Many Passengers. It was a true prophecy. At every crossroad and cream box were waiting rough hill ponies, quaint old buggies, even sledges; some had actually walked. "Four miles is nothing if there's a trip to town at the end of it," said one smiling young woman with a baby in her arms. "Town! Just think of it. . Why, I've often dreamt of town on Christmas Eve, the noise and the bustle and the paper flowers in the shop windows." "And the band," said a pale-faced woman who had sat silent in her corner. "I'd give anything for the sound of a band playing Christmas carols again; the tuis are the only band I've heard for the last five years."

"There'll be a band, you bet your life," said the driver reassuringly, as he packed them in their places. "There's a carnival on an' folks is dancing in the streets to-night." "Dancing! Oh, fancy a dance again," said the girl with the baby, her eyes soft and shining. "John, do you think the baby'll sleep ? It's four years since we've danced together." "Don't you worry about the kid," said the driver cheerily. "We'll park the lorry in a quiet spot an' you can put him to sleep on the floor an' come back an' take a look every now an' then. We're havin' a real spree to-night, we are."

Who could resist the infection of his kindliness ? The stranger had been immensely diverted at first to note a certain distinction between the driver's guests; it was evident that even in the way-back they had their social grades. There were a few couples whose voices and manners spoke of culture, and about them at first there clung a certain reserve, a measure of self-consciousness at finding themselves free guests in such a motley company. The majority herded cheerily together, eying the "gentlefolk" with a touch of distrust, but themselves remaining haughtily aloof from the Maoris and half-castes who joined their ranks.

Camaraderie. This persisted until the town was reached, so that there was a decorous quiet in the lorry upon the outward journey; one heard lowered voices and a murmur of the wool market and fixed prices. But once the party reached the little town, all reticences melted away; in ten minutes the stranger found himself engulfed in it all. In ha!f an hour he was dancing in the street, his partners alternately the lady with the English voice and the pretty half-caste whose three children were asleep on the lorry floor. The man with the worn, tailored suit and Oxford accent was dancing with the little Irish girl whose husband had

been his plougnman in better days; on his head was a paper cap, while about his neck hung a gaily painted wooden horn upon which he blew resounding tally-ho's at frequent intervals. . . And this, thought the stranger, was a nolicense town; they had not even had the ordinary stimulus to gaiety.

Later, at one of the two small restaurants the town boasted, all distinctions vanished utterly. The party from the lorry drew some small tables together and feasted royally upon flounders and strawberries and cream, while tho driver at the top of the table kept up a running fire of nonsense and good cheer. It had been a splendid evening. At eleven the host rounded up his passengers; they came laden with parcels, arm in arm, still humming the carols that the band was playing in the crowded streets. Gone was all the reserve and decorum of the outward trip; husbands and wives or sweethearts sat hand in hand in the kindly darkness while every voice joined in the singing of the old sentimental hymns and songs. Presently tho company began to melt away; at every corner now happy voices called good-night, at every farewell cheers wero given again and yet again for their kindly host. At last the stranger was left alone; beside him the driver beamed with satisfaction. "We've got to make this a yearly event," he said happily. . . This, indeed, was the Christmas spirit.