We had told the usual stories and laughed at them again. Then there was a bit of a lull, but things brightened up when a stranger joined us. He was a bloke called Norm who had that valuable skill of joining a group with ease. He told us some local yarns and stood his round so things were bubbling along merrily.
Of course, when you’re sitting outside a pub filling in time, the passing traffic is part of the entertainment.
A sheep truck from Temuka rattled past followed by a Plunket car: Norm told us the name of the cockie who always uses Temuka Transport and he guessed the Plunket nurse was on her way to Neil Picken’s place.
"Neil’s wife’s had a boy. They’re calling him ‘Slim’."
The excitement level rose a notch or two when a police car cruised past and the cop looked as though he had more on his mind than the odd speeding ticket.
"He’s not the local cop", Norm told us. "Must be something happening."
It reminded Norm of what might have been a rural myth but he swore it was the truth.
"About 30 years ago — must have been about 1995, about the time they took old ‘Fingers’ Fleury off to the Milton Hilton for a wee holiday. The cops were collecting thousands of dollars with speed cameras and they used to put a camera in an unmarked car and park down by those trees on the right hand side."
He pointed to a clump of greenery and swore he could take us to the very tree the car was parked behind.
"Well, the cops would leave that car unattended and the camera would just take a shot of the number plate on any car going past over the limit. We had a hard case here called Brian Bansgrove and he had the bright idea of removing the number plates on the cop car and putting them on his old Holden. Then he drove the Holden up and down the road at about 80, and each time he saw the camera flash. Then he replaced the number plates on the cop car. So, in the end, the cop car ended up getting about 30 speeding tickets. How about that?"
We all laughed heartily. Even if it wasn’t true, it was a good yarn.
Silence for few minutes and then the very thoughtful Norm wondered aloud, "Maybe that cop’s cruising around looking for gang members with patches."
We agreed that this was likely, given all the hoo-ha about patches recently.
"It’s got a bit out of hand", moaned Bob. "My old aunt’s too scared to go to patchwork classes now."
Then he stiffened and slapped the table. "Hey, now we know why the cop was sneaking around. Look who’s coming into the pub."
We looked through the windows towards the bar and a sudden chill descended in spite of the warmth of the late afternoon sun.
Moving through the tables like a Springbok scrum looking for a pushover try was group of strangers, all wearing the same-coloured jackets and every jacket had some kind of logo on the back but they were too far away to be made out clearly.
"Don’t look like the usual bunch of bros. Even some white-haired types there. Wouldn’t be Hell’s Angels, surely?"
"Didn’t hear any motorbikes", offered Tom, "but they could be round the back. Plenty of parking there."
It was time for the next round and Ted was in the chair. "Tide’s out, Ted", came a chorus.
"Yeah, well let’s just wait a bit and see who these characters are."
By now the bar serving area was pretty well surrounded by the newcomers and Ned could contain his curiosity no longer.
"Look, I’ll shoot in to the bog and just get close enough to see the patches, eh?"
"Rather you than me", muttered Ted who in his younger days as a 16-stone prop had tamed many an opposition pack.
We watched Ned, looking a bit shaky, moving through the throng with a wary eye and an attempt at nonchalance.
He disappeared into the toilets and had the good sense to flush the dunny to give his reconnoitering some semblance of being genuine rather than a spying mission.
He was soon back with us and seemed a bit calmer.
"Well, Ned. Who are they? Head Hunters? Mongrel Mob? Black Power?"
"Nah. Some new crowd. The patch says ‘Alexandra Petanque Club’. Maybe they’re Grey Power."
— Jim Sullivan is a Patearoa writer.
