Winton grew, slowly. Rhubarb grew, quickly, in mounds of fowl manure. Sheep and cattle arrived. The Allen family arrived, including the brother of the last living survivor of the Battle of Waterloo. Tinned meat and tongues were exported to Britain from Winton’s Boiling-down Works. Wells were dug; children were told to beware playing anywhere near them, and given an incentive – the devil, their parents said, lived down the well. It became a local custom for schoolboys to jump on Minnie Dean’s unmarked grave.
One…two…three…four Fonterra tankers drove by Graeme Ingils’ house in less than an hour on a warm Friday afternoon in early autumn, when the town clock, which also gave the temperature, read 26 degrees.
It wasn’t 26 degrees. It was more like 17 or 18. Gillian McFarlane really did grit her teeth. In her Country Manners gift shop on Winton’s main street she sold silver spoons to a customer, and continued expressing her outrage at the incorrect temperature. She said it was a scandal. Last November, when the Tour of Southland cycle race came to Winton, the temperature on the town clock had made the wild claim that it was minus four degrees. ‘TV1 and TV3 were here,’ she said. ‘It’s a very bad look.’ She had agitated for it to be fixed but no one wanted to know, including Rotary, which had donated the digital clock and temperature gauge. ‘Rotary like to donate, then abandon. Bunch of wallies.’
At least it was an improvement on the old town clock. The time on that had been wrong. Actually, it had been right but only twice a day, and just for a minute. Gillian said, ‘It was 20 past ten in Winton for 27 years.’ Permanent morning or everlasting night? Was there a difference in those 27 static years? Winton, going about its sheepy business at the bottom of the South Island, with fat trout jumping in the Oreti River and flat, swamp-drained fields stuffed with New Zealand’s best swedes.
Then came the revolution. Margaret Kane at the Paramount Motel said it happened overnight. That was how it felt when the first wave of North Island farmers arrived in the mid 1990s and began converting sheep farms to dairy. Cheap wool and lamb chops made way for the lucrative swirl of cow milk. Southland was now the fastest-growing region for milk output, with an increase of 50 percent in the past five years.
Old traditions remained. Winton was about to host the Bride of the Year contest. A frost arrived that morning; Margaret Kane said, ‘You don’t have a swede ’til you’ve had a frost.’ I said, ‘What did you say?’ I had heard her the first time but I wanted to hear her say it again, for the sound and the certainty of it. She said, ‘You don’t have a swede ’til you’ve had a frost.’ I asked her about the virtues of swedes. She said, ‘They’re animal feed but kids like ’em raw. They taste like apples. Or turnips.’
As ever, shearing gangs were in town for the season. They included Megan Thomas, 20, from Balclutha, and Debbie Clarke, 45, of Winton. Debbie poured a bottle of Tui into her teacup. We were sitting in the beer garden of Middle Pub at noon. ‘Fonterra have a good thing going, but… nah, sheep’ll come back,’ said Megan. ‘There’s still shearing work around.’
New practices thrived. There was only one empty shop on the main street, which was an elegant destination for Saturday shoppers from Invercargill, Gore and Queenstown. Winton is a pretty town. There are mauve rhododendrons, horse chestnut trees, and sunflowers that grow to terrific heights. Crime is rare and usually petty; there had been a run of diesel thefts, senior sergeant Richard McPhail said, and last year thieves from Christchurch targeted jet skis. They were caught in the cemetery after they’d got stoned and slept it off by the gravestones. You can get a big feed at the burger bar, which does the Winton Stop Over for $9.90 – double beef, double cheese, double pineapple. There are jewellery and fashion stores, beauty treatments, an expensive restaurant.
I asked Gillian McFarlane to name the most popular item in her gift store. She pointed to a pot of Scullys Lavender Sleep Aid. ‘When they asked me to sell it I said, “It’s a load of hogwash.” My father was a doctor, you see. They said, “Well, take a dozen free of charge.” A woman came in the next day and asked about it. I said, “Madam, it’s up to you if you want to buy it, but I’m telling you it’s pure bunkum.” Well, I sold out by the end of the week, re-ordered it, the same thing happened, re-ordered it. I generally sell two or three pots every day.’
I liked the thought of Winton enjoying a sound sleep, and I liked Gillian. I liked her archaic language – ‘hogwash’, ‘bunkum’. I liked her frantic impulsive manner. She said, ‘I was put out on the streets at a very early age by my parents to help save Manapōuri.’ Was it nature or nurture that made her so… loud? She had a kind of American confidence. She had been born in Invercargill, and travelled to London, then New York, where she met
