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Chapter VIII: The Visitors

“Thy visitation hath preserved my spirit”—Job x, 12.

It might be imagined that in so remote a spot one would never see a face except those of daily occurrence. But my experience was far otherwise. I nearly always had visitors.

In the earliest days came land buyers—to see what bargain might be picked up. The following are a few I can remember:

About 1909 two young gentlemen from Canterbury came looking for country to establish another “Canterbury settlement.” As they considered Broadlands rather wild at that time, I showed them Strathmore. They were well pleased and asked me to communicate with the father of one of them. The son had told me that his father owned two thousand acres which he could sell at any time at £30 per acre. Consequently in submitting the proposition I elaborated the idea that he might sell his two thousand acres and acquire fortyeight thousand acres and have money to spare for development. His reply was brief and to the point: “I would not exchange my two thousand acres in Canterbury for the whole of the North Island.” Stout old fellow! The true Canterbury spirit and boldly said! Also foolishly said as is often the case — boldness and folly often go together.

Again in April, 1911, another party of South Islanders came in merry mood testing all the streams to see which tasted best when mixed with their whisky. Later they would have bought had I consented to grease the palm of their valuer.

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And in 1912 came one of the most extraordinary men I have met. He was fascinated with the place and had all sorts of large-scale plans for the development of it. He was in touch with wealthy folk in Europe. Unfortunately he was too greedy. Having obtained an option from me he added fifty per cent. to it for his profit. But his principals discovered his trick and business was off. A double pity. To me it would have meant release for other work while still full of vigour: and, as for the Continental buyers, their factories were blown to smithereens in 1914 and Broadlands would have saved them quite a tidy sum.

Later, when motors began to appear on the roads, friends doing “The Hot Lakes,” on nearing Broadlands thought (so I imagine): “There's poor old Vaile buried alive — can't have seen a human being for ages. Let's dig him up.” When this kindly thought impressed several parties at the same time it would sometimes lead to quite good business. One New Year's Day I had twenty-seven visitors in at the same time, and on another occasion I had the like number — a dead 'eat you might call it. Good enough! Let them all come. Of course when the number of one's visitors greatly exceeds the number of one's chairs the guests have to be invited to the smooth softness of benzine cases or soap-boxes; and if glasses fail, whisky has to be drunk out of cups — the thought is more ghastly than the fact! For tableware everything has to be used — plates of every size and pattern, and knives, spoons and forks of sorts. The principles of one-man-one-spoon have sometimes to be violated in favour of share and share alike — individualism crashed before the onslaughts of socialism. Food never beat us. We just stepped across the main street to the Broadlands warehouse, seized an appropriate number of tins and cut their throats.

Outstanding among my guests was our Governor-General, good Lord Bledisloe — nobleman and gentleman. Frightfully page 123 learned and the soul of kindness and consideration. Withall one of the best shots I have ever seen. He brought with him 2.083 yards of aide-de-camp, a very likeable lad. Together with a learned doctor of science from the Waikato we had a very jolly time.

Many other important folk from overseas, and all Prime Ministers (except only Mr. Forbes), and nearly all other Ministers have visited Broadlands. The first important company I entertained was that of Mr. Massey on 23rd January, 1913. He had just attained to the Premiership. Now at the time I left Auckland Mr. Massey was president and I was Vice-president of the Political Reform League — so I knew him very well. One of the first places he visited was Rotorua, the hot spot and source of central heating for the North Island. In I rode to congratulate and to welcome my old chief. After dinner Mr. Massey hinted that he would like to look in at luncheon the next day. So I slipped quietly away, got my faithful steed out of the R. M. stables, and made good time out to Broadlands. From kindly neighbours I mustered up gear and helpers, so when the party comprising Mr. Massey, Messrs. J. A. Young, M.P. (now Sir Alex.), John Strachan (Under-Secretary for Lands), H. M. Skeet (Commissioner of Crown Lands for Auckland), J. B. Thompson (Drainage Engineer), F. G. Dalziel (Chairman of the Taupo Totara Timber Company), —. Strang (another director), the Scottish chairman of the Rotorua Chamber of Commerce, and a dozen others arrived, we were more or less ready. Nearly everything on the table was produced on the farm — and all the company had a “good feed.” During lunch Mr. Massey made a rather feeble joke, but, as it proceeded from the new Prime Minister, all present laughed — except the president of the Rotorua Chamber of Commerce, who sat in dignified silence and we felt rather reproved for having laughed at the poor joke. However, in about ten minutes our presidential page 124 friend justified his nationality by bursting out laughing and exclaiming “I see it now!” Then indeed our laughter was genuine and unrestrained.

I regret to say that this luncheon caused the greatest jealousy among many who should have known better, and I was even attacked in the local press.

By invitation I then accompanied Mr. Massey's party to Taupo and down the Company's line to Putaruru. There the inevitable public meeting was held. The chairman being prosy and lengthy in his introduction of the Prime Minister, an old Maori rose in the audience, flourished his †taiaha and shouted: “E hoa you talk too much; you stop; we want Massey.” This gentlest of hints had immediate effect to the delight of all (except the chairman).

When I was in the thick of my fight with my friends of the Taupo Totara Timber Company, a branch of the Farmers' Union rang up and expressed a wish to inspect the much-debated country on the morrow.

I was charmed. How many would there be?

“Fifteen” was the answer.

“That's rather a lot for such short notice,” I gasped.

“Oh, we'll bring our own tucker.”

“†Ka tika” said I. “That's all right.” However, after discussion with the housekeeper, it was decided that we could just seat and feed the number named. So I got their secretary on the telephone and protested that I couldn't have food brought on to the place — it looked too mean. We could fit it: but would they give me a ring as they passed through Rotorua? When the ring came through I again enquired the number — for often fifteen promise and only ten turn up. In this case the answer came “Twenty.” I trust my friend did not hear my expression of pleasure! When the company arrived I thought they looked a very healthy twenty. My tally through the gate page 125 was twenty-seven! So there was rushing around, the moving of a large table into the garden, box seats, and so on. Fortunately, half-a-dozen proved “wowsers” and we did not need to produce any supplementary cups. There was a hurried baking of scones and opening of more tins. All ended most happily and satisfactorily.

In the autumn of 1917 the Directors of the Bank of New Zealand wrote asking if I could provide them with a guide as they would like to inspect the land about which there was so much talk. Of course that meant that I myself had to show them round, and I further invited them to stay at my home. Five accepted: but Mr. Kane “took ill” in Rotorua, and Sir Harold Beauchamp stayed with him to administer a guinea's worth of his celebrated pills. Consequently only three arrived. They were well pleased and offered liberal advances for development. However, I used mine for investment in war bonds as at that time the situation looked pretty desperate. Not long before this the local manager of the bank had been out and my old friend Mr. Thos. Corkill (now risen to be chief inspector) on one of his celebrated walking tours had looked in and spent a couple of days with me. Next time I went into Rotorua the service-car driver said:

“What are all these bank people doing at your place?” (Observe how circumspect one should be in the country!)

“Yes,” I said, “it's pretty hot. First the manager, then the head inspector, and finally the board of directors. And all I'm asking for is a pound an acre.”

“Fifty thousand pounds!” he exclaimed.

“That's nothing to me, Frank.”

Then there was the time when I was coming in from sowing a burn and thereby rendered blacker than my boots. Behold a party of ladies and gentlemen playing golf in the front paddock! I tried to sneak by but was not successful, being run page 126 down and highly complimented on my appearance. The party consisted of some old friends and some members of a family distinguished in the oat trade in Southland. I invited them to dinner. At this time I was installing the telephone. The instrument was on the wall of my dining room, but the wire had not been completed. As soon as one of the party saw it he wanted to ring Auckland.

“Wait till after dinner,” I said.

“Is the 'phone all right?”

“Right up-to-date,” I answered, “it's wireless.” The moment dinner was over my guest sprang to attention.

“Now show me how you work this wireless.” So I grabbed the handle, gave a violent ring and yelled:

“Clara, come and clear the things away!” My message was quite successful!

And jolliest of all occasions was our annual shooting party. Arriving in the dying days of April, my guests put up their †mai mais and got ready for the murder on the glorious first of May of God's innocent creatures. Sport was always good for the shooters, but the views of the birds may have been different! Especially so, those of the sorely wounded. Then we always had a hare drive and rabbit shooting, varied with fishing, boating and riding. In the evening round the roaring logs in the big open fireplace subjects scientific, political and social were discussed at length; and, had the country adopted our ideas, what incalculable benefits would have accrued! Upon dispersal one and all declared their enjoyment and “kidded” me that it was the charm of my company that delighted them, whereas I of course knew that the real attraction was the shedding of blood.

Another big occasion was a visit by the boys of the Rotorua High School. There was a large number, but I gave up counting them. The masters I refreshed in the house. For the boys I had page 127 constructed a large plank table and placed it under the trees. The boys came to the kitchen and each carried over his plate of food. I had warned the cook of their capacity and to give them plenty. In about a quarter of an hour I went over to see how the lads were getting on. They were all there, but the food had vanished! However, a second helping followed by a large lump of pudding sufficed to keep them alive till afternoon tea. The object of the visit was to interest the boys in agriculture: but I could not help feeling that my remarks bored them, and what they were itching for was to catch a rabbit. Some asked me for the loan of traps so that they might get rabbits to take home with them! Some tried to knock over with stones the pretty and friendly little dotterels. The instinct of killing seems inborn. When we reached a well, with windmill, I thought to test the boys' knowledge by asking them from what depth a suction pump could lift water, and why the limit. The guesses ranged up to four hundred feet. So I told them the story of the boy's answer to the question of what caused the gravy to rise in the cup holding up the crust of a pie: and further why the boy found it necessary to explain that the pie must not be more than thirty feet high!

This reminds me of another scholastic visit. Broadlands is the sort of placed called a station — that is, a stopping place — and in the earlier days of horse-travelling, this was abundantly true. If anyone was in that area he must make for Broadlands or sleep in the scrub. So the school inspector happened in. At dinner he began to tell my three young cadets what wasters the English really were and what wonderful folk the French. I was not going to allow my lads to be thus led astray and ventured the remark that my guest was mistaken. He glared at me and observed:

“Do you know that I took my M.A. in history?”

I replied: “I don't care if you took your Pa as well. If page 128 what you say were correct the French would be in charge of the world: but they are not and we English are.”

“You should read foreign accounts of battles. You would learn facts very different from what you were taught at school.”

“I have here a French account of Trafalgar. According to them they were victorious and were robbed of the fruits of their triumph only by a change in the wind. But such drivel has not made the slightest difference to our command of the sea for more than a hundred years.” Still he went on. Again I interfered and said:

“You're wrong,” at the same time rising from the table and producing the book of the words to prove my contention.

“Yes,” said the inspector, “it seems that I am wrong this time: but even Cicero nods.”

“So it seems,” I remarked, “Aliquando bonus dormitat Homerus.” (Sometimes even the good Homer nods.)

Among all my visitors the most helpful was good Mr. Fred. Rollett, Agricultural Editor of the Auckland Weekly News — the only one among all my friends who shared my vision and encouraged my enterprise from the very start. A man of original thought, great foresight and virile imagination, in Emerson's phrase “his eye made estates” out of the wilderness. I remember a gathering of Auckland business men to greet him on his arrival from Canterbury in the early nineties when he surprised us all by remarking that he considered the land of Auckland Province to be at least equal to that of Canterbury, and expressed the opinion that Auckland would become the principal exporter of dairy produce in the Dominion. At that time considered absurd, his predictions have been fully confirmed by events. Consistently he lent me his influential support through all difficulties and ever appreciated the national value of the great enterprise in which I was engaged.

One of my youngest visitors made one of the shrewdest page 129 observations I remember having heard on Broadlands. His mother and father were telling me of the wonderful cleverness of their first-born son (who was rolling about on the floor) when the intelligent infant exclaimed in a loud voice: “Oh Mummy what fat legs you've got!”

At Broadlands there was always “open house” for all, and we flattered ourselves that in one respect at least we resembled the British Navy — we always had steam up. Moreover there is some magic about the number of people that can be crammed into a small house and given a bed — and still one more if the owner sleeps in a chair! I was always glad to welcome visitors: but the views of the women in the case may have been different. Preparations and aftermaths such as cleaning, cooking, washing-up, moving of furniture, and the like, must have been a great tax on them — and their only reward a few kind words, some excitement, the good food left over as the property of the kitchen and perchance “a few bob.”

In the history of Broadlands neither swell nor swaggie was ever turned away. To visitors I always cried “†Haeremai! Hæeremai! Haeremai! You are thrice welcome worthy sirs.”