RED FED

With the advent of the postponement of NZ elections by by the Labour Party Prime Minister I thought it fitting to publish an account of historical significance that provides insight into the party's beginnings.

Red Fed

“Damned arthritis,” Aunt confided as she repeatedly picked at the sticky tape sealing the package. “It’s a bugger.”

       Every muscle straining, I willed her gnarled, knobby fingers to success. No longer able to stand the one- sided contest, I blurted, “For God’s sake Aunt rip it—just rip it open.”

       Her head snapped up; her palsied hands stopped shaking and she flat eyed me. “Rip it,” she echoed.

       “Gives me the willies watching you open parcels; here, let me,” I offered and reached my arm towards the recalcitrant package.

       “Don’t watch then,” she growled while deftly avoiding my lunge and continued to pick–pick–pick.

       Patience pared to a filament and restraining every muscle in my body, I gritted my teeth and watched on.

       “Ah ha,” she said as she eased the cello-tape end free from the paper. “Here we go.”

Slowly, gently, carefully ensuring the wrapping did not rip, she unfurled the tape and wound it onto a spool. A light of triumph in her eyes, she met mine.

       “You young ’uns,” she harrumphed, “we oldies can teach you a thing or two about recycling.”

       My mouth opened to respond but, needing to see what was in that damned package, I held my tongue.

       At snail’s pace, Aunt removed the paper, folded it neatly and stacked it under her chair. “Waste not, want not,” she said as she straightened, and placed a manilla envelope on her knees, “that’s what we were taught.”

        For God’s sake get on with it, my mind willed. I gripped the side of my chair with both hands to stop myself reaching out and grabbing the thing.

       “and,” she continued, … “that has served me well for a hundred and five years.”

        “Aunt,” I pleaded.

       “Patience boy; patience. That’s something..."

        I pursed my lips, Oh, God, not a lecture and waited for those time worn words about the younger generation's lack of patience.

       “But, enough of that;" she said, "I see you’re wanting to know.” Her fingers prized open the flap and she peeped in. “Well, I never!” s

       “What ? Aunt. What?”

       Between finger and thumb she withdrew a glossy booklet, smiled and murmured, “One hundred years to the day.”

       “What day, Aunt?”

       Her eyes seemed to look right through me; got a hazed lost-in-her own thoughts look. Then she leaned towards me, "I remember that day as if it were yesterday.”

        My brow creased. My eyebrows raised

"The youth of today knows nothing of our history," she bemoaned amidst tut tutting and head shaking. “Blackball, a mining town on the West Coast was the birth place of the Labour Party, boy. Here,” she said arm extended and handed over what looked to me like an invitation.

My mouth opened as I stared at the embossed print which read,

“The New Zealand Labour Party invites Ann McKinlay to be Guest of Honour at the hundred-year celebration of the Labour Party movement?”

       My gaze lifted to Aunt’s face.

        “What a hotbed of unrest that time. Your Granddad and his mining mates demanding rights to fair treatment, struck. Quite took the bosses by surprise for collective action by workers was unheard of. The constabulary rounded the men up and took them to court. The authorities labelled them, Red Feds.”

       My eyebrows rose higher. My bottom wiggled forward on my chair. Chin cradled in my hands and elbows propped on my legs I leaned closer, “My Grandad–was a rabble-rouser?”

       Aunt nodded. “For three months, the miners struck until they eventually got what they wanted.”

       “That was?”

       “Lunch hour lengthened from fifteen minutes to thirty minutes.

       Grans voice twinkled out a glassy laugh. “Rather outspoken, your Grandfather, boy. He had a lot to say about working conditions.

Blackball was a volatile place. Harry Holland and Paddy Webb smuggled in in the dead of night held secret meetings while we kids stood watch on top of the sandhills, and with our lemonade bottle candle lights warned of the approach of the constabulary. Robert Semple, nicknamed Fighting Bob the most dangerous of the wild “Red Feds” because of his whirling declamatory words and windmill gesticulations was a frequent visitor to our home. Your grandfather was an ardent unionist and supporter of the Founding Party.”

Ears tuned in, I leaned back in my chair, stretched my legs, closed my eyes and listened.