The Sound of Te Awamutu

She came all the way from America,
She had a blind date with destiny.

“I’m not from Merica, Kirstie, I’m South African.”

Miss Kirsten Ellison and her new friend from school, Juffrou Hannah DeKievert, were visiting London for Hannah’s first time, and had stopped off in the Australia Shop for necessary supplies from home.

“I know that babe, it’s a Crowdies song. They’re touring London soon and were my favourite band when I was at Uni.”

“Oh, okay, so are they Strayan then? I’ve never heard of them.”

Kirsten smiled, “it depends upon whom you ask. Two Aussies and one Kiwi, but the Kiwi was the leader, so it’s big debate whether they are Strayan or Kiwi or what.”

“Much, as indeed, seems the case with Miss Ellison herself.”

Kirsten smiled again. “Miss Ellison is Strayan, but is supporting the All Blacks. Have you got what you needed?”

“Ja, it was just for looking, I only left home two months ago so I’m not so desperate for Fanta Grape just now.”

The Australia (New Zealand, South Africa, Canada) Shop is in Covent Garden, and is home to the sorts of products that young people from those far distant lands like to have for comfort’s sake when they have been in London too long. It’s mostly sweets, (or lollies if you’re from the South Pacific), and biscuits, but there is also music and DVD’s, books, calendars, flags, football scarves, tea-towels with the words to the Haka on them, Aboriginal Art, and all sorts of kitchen utensils for the barbeque. (Or braai if you’re from South Africa.) Kirsten shops there for Violet Crumble and Rooibos at least monthly, but Hannah had not needed to stock up on home comforts just yet.

And the sound of Te Awamutu,

Had a truly sacred ring.

Kirsten and Hannah had met at school, but not as children. They had met as teachers. Miss Ellison had, until the Easter of 2007, been the second Humanities teacher at Rather Convincing But Nonetheless Fictional Name Secondary College in Hatfield, Hertfordshire; and had been replaced in that role by Juffrou DeKievert when Miss Ellison had been promoted to a curriculum management role. Kirsten had promised to bring Hannah into London to show her around the city, but it had taken until June for this to come about.

“Where now Juffrou?”

“London. I mean The City itself.”

“Right, bus on Strand.”

Johanna DeKievert, (known as Hannah, rather than Jo), had wanted to visit London since she was small. She was South African, (she still is), and had grown up in Cape Town with the stories of how her paternal great-great grandfathers had fought against each other in some form during the Anglo-Boer Wars. She considered herself to be English, as opposed to Afrikaner, and with a mother born of white parents in Kenya she was proud to be part of a long line of “establishers of Africa”, whatever than meant in the early part of the twenty-first century. Her passion had always been history; now here she was in London, having taken a job as a History and Geography teacher in a British school, and about to see the ancient home of her people. (She wasn’t terribly interested in the “Volk”.) Still, as a concession to Oupa DeKievert she insisted upon being addressed as “Juffrou” rather than “Miss”.

“The City.” Kirsten and Hannah stood on the steps in front of St Paul’s Cathedral and Kirsten waved her hand about. “This is the centre of Roman Londinium, was abandoned by the Saxons who built Londenwic over near where we were before, and then was resettled by the Normans who built the Tower of London in the 1070s. It’s now the financial heart of the country and is called…”

“The City. I know this bit. Where is something Roman please?”

Kirsten smiled and set off down towards Cannon Street, intending to show Hannah the “London Stone” before continuing towards the Tower of London and the roman wall which stands at the entrance to Tower Hill Underground station.

“Watling Street. This was once…”

“Ja I see it too, it was the main drag in Londinium and then down to the coast ja?”

“And up through the centre. It passed through Verulamium as well.”

“Through where?”

Kirsten smiled. “See, you don’t know everything Juffrou smarty-pants. Verulamium, the place where you now live. Naughty girl, you should have known that one.”

“Oh, Roman St Albans. Ja I did know that it was just your accent confusing me.”

Kirsten laughed aloud. “Ha. I don’t have an accent, I come from Hertfordshire, this is the way words are supposed to be pronounced.” Of course Kirsten said this in her thickest possible New Zealand accent, (she’s quite good at accents actually, clever girl is our Miss Ellison), so it came out as “Oy don’t hev en ixint”.

Hannah laughed. “Thenks Muss Illysen, Oy’m kunvunced. See, I can do Kiwi as well.”

“Naughty and cheeky you are. Anyway, this is Watling Street and that steel fellow over there is a cordwainer, like a cobbler.”

Hannah looked across to where Kirsten was pointing and saw a bronzed statue of a man sitting down, mending a shoe which was turned sole-up in his lap. He had both his rams raised to horizontal, ostensibly in the act of mending.

“He’s quite natural isn’t he? I’ve never seen a statue like that, I mean a seated man in life size and sitting at ground level. Can you get a photo of him for me?” Hannah went over for a closer look, but not until she had handed Kirsten her camera. “If I sit on his knee will you take a picture for me?”

“Ha, with your not knowing about Verulamium, and your indeed horrific mocking of the good people of Aotearoa, I should think sitting on his knee is not the best place for you.”

Hannah smiled. “Yes thank you Curtseygirl, remember I have read your stories. I thought you’d given that up until the end of the school year.”

“I have,” grinned Kirsten, “but then I’m not the one in need of a smacked bottom at this point am I?”

“True. Will you take the photo?”

“Bend over young lady and I’ll post it on 360.”

And she did! (Well, Hannah did. Kirsten didn’t.)

“This boot is sticking into my tummy.”

“Just hold that there. Right, smile…”

“Smile? I’m being spanked by a tradesman.”

“Well cry then, I don’t bloody care, just get ready for the photo. One, two, three…”

CLICK

“Done.”

“I’m stuck.”

“Wriggle down a bit.”

“Can I help you ladies?” Kirsten turned to see a young man in a business suit standing next to her. She’d not seen him walk up, but now he was right there. “Your friend appears to be in some bother.”

Kirsten looked back towards Hannah, who had managed to extricate herself from the cordwainer’s grasp. “No, she appears to be free now.”

“I meant that she was in position for spanking in the first place. What had she done?”

“I’m a history teacher,” contributed Hannah as she walked up, “and did not know the roman name for St Albans.”

“Not a crime requiring public flogging?”

“Ah, but I live in St Albans you see, and this young lady is my boss.”

The man smiled. “But you are not from here. From where in South Africa are you?”

“Kaapstadt.”

“Ag, praat su Afrikaans?”

“Not if I can avoid it.”

“Ag shame. I am Martin, from Bloemfontein; I have been in London three years now. And you Miss, North island or South?”

“South island” replied Kirsten with a grin.

“Canterbury?”

“Hobart.”

“Is that near Christchurch?”

“No it’s near Hobart; I’m Tasmanian, not New Zealander.”

“Mean girl!” laughed Hannah. “She is from Auckland, but grew up in Australia.”

“It seems you are both in need of spanking then,” laughed Martin good naturedly, “one for forgetting her history and the other for forgetting her geography.”

“I think Kirsten deserves two smacks, she forgot her manners as well,” laughed Hannah.

“Kirsten, a South African name for a Kiwi-Aussie lady. No wonder she is confused. So what do you say Kirsten?”

“Kirsten says her name is Danish, and what you South Africans get up to in your own time is none of her concern. But she is sorry if she appeared rude.”

“Agreed. Will you join me for coffee ladies?” Martin pointed towards a café on the opposite side of Watling Street.

Following coffee and a long discussion about the virtues of living in London, in which both Kirsten and Martin discussed the various outlets for Antipodean/African passion among the English, Hannah asked if she and her friend might be excused to continue their journey towards the Tower. Martin agreed, as he had appointments in the opposite direction, but reminded the women that they were both owed a spanking first.

“But I got mine,” protested Hannah, “from the cordwainer.”

“Over the knee doesn’t count unless there are smacks involved Juffrou. Horizontal posture is not punishment, horizontal marks are.”

“True. But Kirstie won’t…”

“Kirstie won’t mind going second,” finished Kirsten. Hannah looked at her quizzically, but Kirsten only smiled back.

“Agreed then. Juffrou? Bend over the table.” Martin stood up and assisted Hannah to her feet by pulling back her chair. Hannah stood and, with a final look of concern at Kirsten, put her hands on the table.

“Miss Ellison, what is the roman name for St Albans?”

“Ask Juffrou DeKievert, she should know know.”

“It’s Verulamium.”

“Verulamium,” repeated Martin. “Five syllables. Good. Lean forward Juffrou.”

WHACK

WHACK

WHACK

WHACK

WHACK

Hannah gasped at the blows rained down from Martin’s open palm to the flat of her skirt. “Ve-ru-la-mi-um,” added Martin with effect, after the spanks had been delivered. “Understand?”

“Yes sir,” replied Hannah.

WHACK

“Umm, ja meneer. Dankie meneer.”

“Better. Upright.”

Hannah stood up, and rubbed her bottom.

“Miss Ellison?” Martin turned towards her.

“Kirstie you know you don’t have to…” began Hannah.

“It’s okay mate, it's a bit of fun.”

“Miss Ellison, bend over please.”

Kirsten bent over the table, placing her hands upon it.

“Now I’m sure you understand the geography of the Antipodes Miss Ellison, so I can only assume it was out of cheekiness that you responded to me the way you did. Good natured,” he paused and looked up to see Kirsten nodding, “but cheekiness none-the-less. Six for cheek.”

“Six for each cheek I think,” laughed Hannah.

“Do you wish to return to the table Juffrou? No? Then quiet.”

“Asseblief meneer,” nodded Kirsten.

“Asseblief? Then only four for you.”

WHACK

WHACK

“Ag, jislaak!” called Kirsten. “You hit hard man!”

“Two more for insolence, it’s six again.”

“Ag!”

WHACK

WHACK

WHACK

WHACK

“Ooh. Dankie meneer.” Kirsten was rubbing the back of her dress even as she stood up.

“Ja well, cheekiness has its penalties Juffrou Ellison.”

“Ja. Baie dankie.”

“Are you taking the piss?”

Kirsten smiled. “No, I’m trying to be polite.”

“All right then. I must be away as well, business to attend to. Thank you ladies for a lovely coffee and your delicious company.”

Hannah nodded, Kirsten curtsied, both said “totsiens,” then all laughed at each other as Martin turned to walk off.

“Thank you for doing that Kirstie, I think I like London.”

“Me too mate, me too.”