Samson

My Papuan House-Boy

By “Samarai”

HOME, to me, is a bachelor’s bungalow where I occasionally sleep and look in, now and again, to see if it is being kept clean. A wrinkled old heathen, wearing a permanent expression of dis gust, his equally corrugated better half (her whole body is lavishly tattooed in a series of concentric circles), together with their sprightly son and heir, aged 14, constitute my total menage—l should say menagerie, for their antics at times are reminiscent of the monkey-house at Taronga!

They bear me no animosity—which is very kind. I must say!—but their general disposition when I am around is one of endurance under provocative conditions, and their work, a staccato series of ac tions which can only be interpreted as great condescension on their part that they should labour for me when they could be sitting around doing nothing.

The one bright spot in their existence comes on the first of every month when I pay their wages. On this day, instead of the usual “Good-morning, Taubada” greeting that jolts me into consciousness at dawn, there comes in regular rhythm, “This day No. 1 day, Taubada”. For the next few hours there is a continual scurrying of feet, arms, brooms and furniture; and when I return that even ing I discover a spotless house and six questioning eyes in three smirky faces, with one huge itching palm oscillating in readiness to grasp the moment I show signs of paying out. Only one palm, for the old man is keeper of all the family finance which women and children are definitely not allowed to touch.

When he first approached me for en gagement I was doubtful of his capa bilities in the house-work line, but this indecision was dispelled when he reached into the cavity of a tattered fibre “dilly bag” and produced a torn and finger begrimed reference from a one-time em ployer. It read “The bearer of this is named Samson and his strength lies in his ability to wangle out of any trouble he may get into. He’s good at his job, but wants watching for he’ll take the sugar out of your tea”. It was signed by a prominent resident whom I know does not exaggerate.

One week of Samson and I found out only too well that he was truly versed in the arts of deception and conception and, with a totally inadequate Delilah as his spouse, he was having an unrestricted go at using his talents to the full.

Household bills shinned up as high as they could the moment he put the ’fluence upon them. Odds and ends that could be used for other purposes did dis appearing tricks that would have left Houdini scratching his head. If I called for a cup of tea, then a full teapot made its appearance and he developed the habit of putting one spoonful of sugar in my cup and two over the side, these to be scooped up later into a dirty paw and dumped into the remains of the teapot.

It was great while it lasted but it suc cumbed through over exertion, for I promptly got a blunt axe into operation and trimmed Samson’s beard down to the roots.

RESTRICTED in his immediate ac quirements, his fertile brain con cocted a new method of spoliation, revealing him as one of the “I want” lads who constitute the “gimme” brigade— highwaymen of the first water.

It started a week ago with a demure request for an empty tobacco tin. He got

that without any opposition and it was stored away safely in his box. Next day he produced the tin and asked for some tobacco to put in it. With the tobacco went a cigarette paper and some matches.

Yesterday he discovered, quite suddenly and unknown even to himself, that he has a mother living m penury in a village some miles down the coast and, with true filial devotion, he must write her a letter but as writing paper and envelopes are not part of his stock in trade, would I please provide? In overlooking the fact that he cannot write and his mother cannot read, he is only keeping up to form, for Samson has no use for trivial details. , , .

TO-DAY, I wonder what is going to happen. There has been a lull for 24 hours, but that’s probably because he has not yet worked out a'll the details of his next act of piracy.

My footsteps on the verandah bring a

pattering response from the kitchen.

“You come, Taubada?”

“Yes, I come.’’

“You have kai-kai? Yes?”

“No.”

The light of expectancy that burnt so fiercely a few moments ago dies out suddenly. Apparently, there is no free feed to be worked out of me to-day.

“You can bring me a cup of tea,” I request.

He shuffles off with a look on his face that gives a modicum of hope to his stomach.

Soon he returns, rattling a cup and saucer and spilling 25 per cent, of its contents in all directions. The sugar in the small basin starts to heave and the black, stupified form of an ant appears, A few others break surface within a second or two. My frown deepens, “Ants ’e stop. Shall I t’row ’im away?”

The platonic Samson reaches out a hand but I halt the dispensation of the

sugar with a wild look. He stands back and hovers around like an unpaid bill.

“Well. What do you want now?”

“Please sir, me friend belong you.” (Great Scott! That’s twice to-day.) “My piccanniny, ’e want ’im marry one village girl.”

“Well, what about it? That’s his mis fortune.”

“Yes sir. ’E want ’im little bit money.

No much. Only free pound, thas all.”

“And where do you think I get money from?”

“My friend ’e say, ‘You go ask ’im Taubada. ’lm white man, ’e got plenty’.”

Behold the philanthropic Croesus, mat rimonial agent, et seq.

“What friend?” I ask.

“Brother belong this girl. Ts father my sister, ’im uncle belong me.”

Ye Gods! What a genealogical con fusion. We go into a discussion on the tangled roots of a tribal family tree and I sift a variety of confused statements which I tabulate as follows: 1. —The son and the girl are cousins; 2.—The father of the girl is the lad’s sister; 3—The friend is the sister of the uncle and the brother of the girl and the lad; 4.—They’re all related to each other; and, s.—They’re not related at all.

I’m afraid to go any further with this inquiry because he has not yet introduced the mother, the cost of, living, or what the Government wants to do. So I tear

up these deductions and scatter them to the four winds. The vital question still remains—what about the three pound notes?

Nothing doing. I can’t afford to lay out good, cold, hard cash on such a flimsy excuse as marriage.

So poor old Samson toddles off with a crocodile tear in his eye and his brain working overtime to discover where he slipped.

PEACE for a while and I am able to settle down in an easy chair to do a spot of steady reading. Intuition tells me to raise my eyes and there is Samson, full of good cheer, bright and breezy and with a sparkle of expectancy in his eyes.

“Well?”

“Taubada, I no got benzine.” Which is as good as to say “No benzine, no ironed clothes”.

“Why you no tell me yesterday? To-dav Sunday.” J “Yesterday I finish 'im. To-day ’e no stop.”

Quite a simple matter after all. Why the worry? I scribble a note and send him down to Tom, honing that I might be able to borrow sufficient until the morrow.

Back to the chair and remember a paper that I haven’t read. After a diligent search, I discover it is missing.

A howl of woe g(3es over the air, to be answered by a wide eyed and mouthed youth.

“Where’s my paper?”

“Samson ’e take ’im.”

“What for?”

“ ’E want ’im tobacco paper.”

“Bring it back right away.”

It returns, minus the front and back pages and three middle ones. I glance through it but all there is to read is two pages of racing gossin and one on hints for young housewive's.

By this time Samson is back. He has managed to scrounge a bottle of benzine and disappears into the kitchen to com mence operations. There is a violent pumping—then a tumultuous “bang!”

Just as I am expecting the roof to lift at any minute, the perspiring Papuan appears and informs me: “Iron ’e no go”.

More trouble. So, heigh-ho, into the kitchen.

On the table is the open benzine bottle, whilst alongside stands the still smoulder ing iron. A dull redness lights un its in terior anatomy and a cloud of pungent, black smoke rises like a threatening genii.

Have you ever wrestled with an ob streperous and dejected benzine iron? It is an amusement that usually ends in one of three ways—it goes up in flames and sets your house alight; it goes out of the window with your kindest regards; or else it doesn’t go at all and you leave it in exasperation for someone else to fix.

I unscrewed the top plate and removed that, but when I lifted it up to the light it promptly committed “hari-kari” by emitting its entire innards on to the floor.

Half-an-hour of five finger exercises was sufficient to restore its shattered entrails and, by that time, I discovered that the cause of the trouble was the weeping condition of the tank. It’s heartbreaking when a flat-iron becomes lachrymose!

Samson’s glow of appreciation broad ened as he realised there would be no ironing for him until the following day.

He begins a hymn of praise as I dis appear round the corner and yell for his heir apparent to make a shower. rESH again, I am in the middle of dropping myself into a pair of trousers that are sufficiently starched to be able to stand them up and jump into them, when I hear the footsteps of

friend Thomas coming along for our Sunday afternoon assimilation of news and nectar.

We meet only once a week and our conversation ranges as far and wide as the Caliph’s Magic Carpet. No subject is too trite nor distance too far for our capacious minds and from the depths of our easy chairs we govern affairs on the ethics of meum and teum.

But this afternoon we centre our thoughts morbidly upon our immediate circumstances and handicaps, for Tom, like myself, has frustrated ambitions in the shape of a house-boy who muddles along sufficiently well enough to avoid the dangers of sudden extermination, the lifting influence of a well-shod foot or immediate decapitation from a swinging right hander. The pronounciation of “I’ll knock your head off” causes bobbing operations to commence automatically, but Tom is hoping that one of these days he’ll forget to duck in time. I trust I’m there when it happens because 200 pounds travelling at 20 miles an hour must make quite an impression on any thing it hits!

We are just sitting back quietly and respectably talking about the easiest way of eliminating Samson without leaving any evidence behind, when the object of our affections exposes a woolly head around the door.

“You want ’im drink, Taubada?”, quoth the oracle.

“Too right. What are y’ having, Tom?

Mine’s a beer.”

“Gin for me, thanks.”

Samson side slips into oblivion, and by the time he returns with a beer and the gin bottle I, barman, have the glasses ready.

“Cheerio. Here goes.”

“Good-ch. ... Ye Gods! What’s this stuff?”

“That, my friend, is dyed-in-the-wool spirit flavoured with juniper berries, un

adulterated and pleasant to the thirsty palate.”

“Is that so? Well, you taste it. It seems like aqua pura to me.”

I gobble a bit and, sure enough, it’s H.O.

“Samson!”

“Me ’ere, Taubada.”

“What the devil have you done to this gin?”

“That no gin, Taubada. That one water.

This gin I t’row ’im away. ’E smell too much—l no like.”

“Thomas. Get me an axe and lead me to the slaughter. But no, my friend. Let us sit down and take it like gentlemen. , . . What’ll y’ have?”

“Make mine a beer, too, thanks.”