My father’s given names were Clifford Keir, though everyone called him Jim. Everyone that is except my mother, who called him ‘Tui.’ No-one ever called him Clifford or Keir, but the staff at the shop always referred to him as “C.K.” To add further confusion my sister and I called him Dad. One day “CK-Jim-Tui-Dad” told me that his father, William Hugh Long, but always known as ‘Tui’- had made a lot of money betting that you couldn’t hit a four gallon kerosene tin, thrown in the air from a distance of ten yards, with a shotgun. Kerosene tins are now a thing of the past, but they were a useful item in their day apart from holding kerosene and providing income for my grandfather from his betting.
They were galvanised and square shaped, about 500mm high and about 250mm square and used by various merchants to hold a variety of products. Science teachers used them to demonstrate to school kids the astonishing effects of air pressure and we utilised them extensively in the butcher’s shop, with the top cut out, to put rendered-down fat in. These were sold to the fish shops as dripping, to replenish their chip vats.
It appeared to me that to hit one with the spreading pellets of a shotgun blast from a mere ten yards would be a piece of cake. That’s what Dad wanted me to think of course, and after little contemplation I bet him a pound that I could do it.
I had never ever fired a shotgun, but I was a dab hand with a miniature rifle and was quite sure that the step-up would pose no problem. To make sure, fellow work-mate and first cousin Jim Geary and I thought a bit of practice wouldn’t hurt. Jim was acting as agent for the rest of the staff to see which way they would place their bets.
We snuck out after work to a deserted paddock on the outskirts of town with Jim’s shotgun, a few cartridges and a kerosene tin. I missed the first shot and was surprised at the kick a shotgun gave to my shoulder. But I soon regained my composure and hit the tin easily in the next two attempts. As pop singer Meatloaf was to sing years later, “Two out of three ain’t bad,” so we reported back to our fellow staff members that a bet on me was like putting your money on Keith Holyoake to win Pahiatua.
Our shop foreman Dan Simonsen, affectionately known as ‘Simo,’ was curiously taking C.K.’s side and was betting that I would miss. Dad had generously allowed that I could have two attempts at the target and needed to hit the tin only once. The rest of the staff backed me to a man. Dad and Simo took on all the bets which ranged from a half dozen of beer, ten shillings, or one pound.
The day of reckoning was a bit like Melbourne Cup Day. We closed the shop sharp at five and then all tore out to the gun club premises at Norfolk Road in meat delivery vans and trucks plus a few private cars. The atmosphere was tense. The foreman ran the show. Dad stood back with a knowing smirk. Simo had three cartridges and two kerosene tins. First he put one of the kerosene tins on the ground and blasted it with the shotgun from ten yards. It blew a huge hole in the tin and rendered it useless. The two other cartridges were put into the double barrels, the gun handed to me and the second tin thrown skyward. I took aim and fired at the peak of its trajectory when it was momentarily motionless. I missed. C.K. and Simo said they saw the pellets veer off to the right of the target. I was not too concerned. I just needed to settle down a little; I had one more chance and I wasn’t going to be fooled into shifting my aim to the left. The tin went up, loomed large on my sights, and I took careful aim, fired, and incredibly, missed again. This time Dad and Simo swore the pellets went above the floating tin.
The rest of the staff were clearly upset. Their losses were substantial. To be fair, Dad and Simo only pocketed the cash. They did share the half dozens they had won and we had a party there and then while I agonised over how I could have missed such an easy target.
A few years later I was recounting the story to my good friend Arch King; at that time breakfast announcer and assistant manager at Radio Wairarapa. He assumed the same smirk as my father had, and suggested I go back and talk to C.K. as he hinted there might have been more to the story.
Dad came clean. He had sent Simo down to see Harold King, Arch’s father and the owner of King and Henry, gunsmiths. On Dad’s instructions Harold gave Simo three cartridges, two of which had the pellets removed. It is the measure of a small town when you consider that it was Harold’s father, also a gunsmith, who was the co-conspirator when my grandfather was up to the same tricks. Simo of course used the real cartridge first to blast the tin on the ground then loaded the gun with the pellet-less models. Their claim to have seen the first lot of shot veer to the right and the second lot of pellets go over the top was, of course, pure fabrication. Dad’s generosity in allowing me two shots at the target was hardly generous at all. With Harold King’s carefully contrived ammo, I would have missed with a hundred attempts!
My grandfather lived in a stately home at the bottom of Worksop Road. It is now hidden among infill housing but it was set in two acres of ground, boasted lovely bush areas, large gardens, a prolific orchard and a swimming pool. I realise now that it was pellet-less cartridges rather than selling sausages that likely paid the mortgage.
As for Jim-Tui-C.K.-Dad, a more appropriate nomenclature might have been Ned Kelly. Or at least, the son of.
