But no one was wanking. At 11.21 there were rabbits at the electricity sub-station. At 11.49, in the nearby village of Outram, a hedgehog crossed the road. At 11.56 Allister said, ‘It’ll all kick off in four minutes. I’ve seen it happen before. Nothing, all quiet, and then with a click of the fingers’ – he clicked his fingers – ‘all hell breaks loose on the stroke of midnight.’
On the stroke of midnight, the patrol car pulled off the road and along the dirt track leading to Outram Glen, a popular swimming hole in the Taieri River – and out of the darkness, suddenly, illuminated by the car’s headlights, was a gang of 40 or 50 teenagers.
Something was happening.
In Mosgiel in broad daylight the most common signs of life were approaching death – old people, squadrons of them, their mobility scooters whispering along Gordon Road. Mosgiel could lay claim to the biggest concentration of rest homes and retirement villages in New Zealand. The inmates formed ten percent of the population – an estimated 800 people and 300 staff. There were Brooklands, Mossbrae, Birchleigh and Glendale. Holy Cross College had townhouses for retired priests. In the very clean, very quiet, very spooky retirement village of Chatsford, Isabella Divers, 94, sat on a deckchair in her garage with a packet of Toffee Pops in her lap – she was waiting for a lift to visit her nephew in hospital. On her cardigan a badge advised I AM VISUALLY IMPAIRED, but she was in fit and dandy spirits. She said, ‘I have a tot of whisky every night. That helps.’
The grandest rest home of all was Maran-Atha, a magnificent pile built in 1900 on Gordon Road as Dr Allan’s residence and surgery, and reopened in 1959 as a rest home by the Open Brethren. Clarence Pringle, 91, said, ‘They take us to church in Dunedin on Sundays.’ Bill Leslie, 85, said, ‘And they drove us to the Waihola Tavern the day after it burned down to see what was left.’ What was left? ‘There was a team of horses out front.’
Bill was a big lad. He sat out on the front porch in shirtsleeves and talked about his days of farming – dairy, then cattle. He said, ‘I had a head operation. I’d bought a horse off Robinson – he was a great one at the rodeo, could ride anything. The horse was as rough as they make them. One day he set off the calves on a stampede. They came at the horse full belt and tipped his front foot. I went head over heels. Sconed me out.
‘Then I had a clot problem. I got put in the hospital in Dunedin. I phoned the manager at Maran-Atha and said, “What do I have to do to get in?” It wasn’t easy. Someone turned up for an interview and said, “A strong healthy man like you, wanting to be put in a rest home?” They said, “The people I worry about are the taxpayers.” I said, “I used to be one of those.”
‘They couldn’t make out why I specified this place, but it was because of my sister. She had polio at eleven, and had a room here for fourteen years. I’m in that room now. An old fella who was in there fell out of bed and ended up dying. They said, “You can have his room if you want it.” I said, “I’m not going to let that go by.”’
In the dining room at lunch, Bill reached over to a sideboard and picked up a handbell. He rang it to announce grace. The men sat at their tables, the women at another; beef stew was served, with potatoes, broccoli, peas and carrots. The staff were tremendously nice and cheerful. ‘Would you like me to push your chair in closer, Olive?’ ‘Here you are, Emily. Does the beef need cutting?’ Residents are served breakfast in bed at seven a.m.; most go back to sleep for a while. There was morning and afternoon tea, Housie, indoor bowls, craft and God.
After lunch, Lawson Adam, 80, sat in his high-ceilinged upstairs room. It was bathed in sunlight. He had trouble talking; he had no trouble playing a hymn on his Hammond organ. There was an open packet of blackballs on the couch, and toothpaste, a toothbrush and Johnson’s Baby Powder beside the washbasin. Lawson brought out a family album. He had written about his childhood on the family farm in Otokia, about his brothers and sisters, about a world of hope and suffering: ‘Katy was the first born. She was a lovely child but was tragically drowned. Second came Peggy, who as a toddler ingested some barley grass, causing death. The outcome of the next pregnancy was a stillborn boy.’
Maran-Atha was full of lively spirits and kindness and good company. There was another kind of rest home in Mosgiel, independent, lonelier, outdoors – the caravan park. It was on a rural edge of the town, with room for twelve berths.
Len, 71, had lived there for eight years. ‘I was a grocer in Dunedin,’ he said. ‘I came to Mosgiel for a lady. It didn’t work out. We were dance partners and I can’t dance anymore.’ His lungs had packed up. ‘A month ago I collapsed in a heap at the RSA. Legs just went under me.’ He was trying to cut down on smoking to two a day; he had fashioned an ash-tray from a Marmite jar half-filled with black water.
Retired driver Tom Bell had lived at the caravan park for fourteen years. He kept a tidy ship. The bed was made, the dishes stacked. He said, ‘Mosgiel’s got everything you want. You wouldn’t catch me living in another town in New Zealand. No – no way. Great scenery. The only thing you can’t see is the damned sea and who wants to see that?’
But then he said, ‘I’m off soon. Drive down to Invercargill, then right up the West Coast, over to Picton,
