Colin Crump - In Endless Fear: A True Story

A TRUESTORY

Colin Crump

Print Edition: ISBN978-0-9941324-6-8

eBook Edition: ISBN978-1-3701012-3-8

eBook edition convertedby Intrepid Sparks, 2017

Second print editionpublished by CopyPress Books, NZ, 2016

First edition publishedby Penguin Books, NZ, 2002

A catalogue record forthis book is available in print from the National Library of NewZealand.

Copyright ColinCrump, 2002

The right of ColinCrump to be identified as the author of this work in terms ofsection 96 of the NZ Copyright Act 1994 is herby asserted.

All rights reserved.Without limiting the rights under copyright reserved above, no partof this publication may be reproduced, stored in or introduced intoa retrieval system, or transmitted, in any form or by any means(electronic, mechanical, photocopying, recording or otherwise),without the prior written permission of the copyright owner.

Thanks to Bruce Fosterfor permission to use the photo of Barry Crump on p. 149.

Printed in New Zealand& distributed worldwide by Copy Press Nelson
www.copypress.co.nz

eBook edition convertedand produced by Intrepid Sparks
www.intrepidsparks.com

A warm vote of thanks and appreciation goes to thatever-so-kind, helpful, swift, obliging, caring, willing, smart,experienced, patient, understanding, diligent and totallydelightful lady, Judith Olsen, who also put up with the worsthandwriting and weirdest spelling that ever dribbled out of aballpoint pen! Thank you, Judith, for being such a good friend too- without your help this story would never have been told.

To my cousinEula, who was such a wealth of what scattered information wasavailable. Thanks to Eula for her research and also for sourcingthe very widely spread and scarce photos which all helped to pullthe story together - not forgetting the hugs along the way. Yes, mydear, thanking you does seem rather short of the degree ofappreciation I wish to extend to you.

Thank you to myolder brothers, Bill and Barry (both now passed on, and whom wemiss profoundly), and a very big thank you to my younger sisterShirley - they also all went down this ever-so-eventful track ofwhat follows in the book. Now its done - perhaps it will be a biteasier to put the past to rest. I certainly hope so.

To my youngerbrother, Peter - so full of blessings and forgiveness - thanksmate. To my youngest sister, Carol, thanks for being you - I havealways been so proud of your work efforts and the achievements thathave resulted from real hard toil.

A specialacknowledgment goes out to Martin Crump, the first son of BarryCrump. Tune in to News Talk I ZB and youll hear his particularstyle of hosting the show. He has a tremendous level ofunderstanding through an equally vast array of topics. You name it- he can pretty much always hold an intelligent discussion on it,as well as put forward a worthwhile point of view of his own.Martin did not need to be the son of a New Zealand icon to findsuccess. He made it on his own - and I, like many others, am veryproud of him for his own achievements.

I truly hope,Martin, that after reading this account, you and your brothers willgain a greater understanding of what made your father the man hewas - which, of course, is a whole lot better than what my fatherhanded me. But we endured it all, Martin, and without doubt we arewiser, stronger, taller and more deeply experienced in theless-easy side of life. I only hope that your own brothers managehalf as well as you - to them go my hopes for understanding, careand some good fortune too. Congratulations, along with my love foryou, Martin.

I have adifferent publisher and editorial team now, but I still rememberfondly the help and friendship of Gary Hanam and Mike Wagg, andespecially Michael Gifkins who sadly is no longer with us.

For this newedition I extend thanks to Dave McManus and his staff at CopyPressBooks, and to Belinda Mellor my friend and editor. Once again, theprocess has been fun.

Thank you all somuch.

Colin G. Crump

No puncheshave been pulled and every

effort tokeep an accurate and balanced

account ofthese events has been maintained

at alltimes.

Some nameshave been altered to protect

theinnocent, and torment the dead.

This book isdedicated to a wonderful mother, and the sons

of Barry - who allsurvived the ordeal. Like trees in the forest

may they alwaysstand tall; and after reading this story, it is

my only wish thatBarrys sons might now truly understand

what helped to maketheir father the man he was.

Whats thatnoise within my ears?

It sounds likechurch bells ringing

Is it joy andhappiness

Or a thousandchildren singing?

Perhaps itslove from way up there

Is someonehailing me

With lovingnews of fun and friends

And bondedfamily?

The doctors sayits tinnitus

That comes fromgrowing old

Those medicswords just cant be wrong

Only they areright I'm told

But as I thinkback when

That greatangry hand

Came crashingdown upon my ears

The bells rangback then and

Theyre stillringing now

No doubttheyll ring for years

Somehow withluck and a handful of friends

I can handlethe chime and the ring

Its given mestrength and the courage to fight

In time - Ijust know - that Ill win

Id had plenty of hidings from the old man, but thisone was a bit hard to live with specially when I went back toschool a couple of days later. His best shot was usually a backhandbash across the ear that left bells ringing in your head for thenext two days.

The other kidswere all gawking at me, and my story of how I fell off the flyingfox that wed built to carry posts across a valley didnt go downtoo well. Actually, no one believed it, including one of theteachers whom I think genuinely cared and could tell that there wassomething pretty wrong not only with this incident but a numberof others from previous occasions that all pointed to the strangegoings-on out at the Crumps Taupaki farm.

My left ear wasstill quite black and the pain in my right hand, I learnt later,was actually from a fracture. I couldnt write properly, which mademy schoolwork even worse than it really was. The livid purple markacross my throat drew the most attention and to this day decadeslater I still find it hard to believe that this huge bruise,clearly showing a sock pattern that hung in there for days, wasactually made by the old man holding my head down to the floor withhis foot across my throat while he laid into me with a broken pieceof horse harness. It was a hell of a flogging and the smell of hisfeet in his stinking socks will haunt me forever. In fact, thefoot-on-the-throat-hold was one of his preferred methods. Barry,who was just one year older than I, having turned eight only theweek before, had also just experienced one of his worst floggingsever and the sock-mark imprinted on his throat wassemi-permanent.

Anyway, theteacher who questioned me in the playground was pretty suspiciousabout the obvious mess I was in and offered to help, but I was tooscared to say anything otherwise, if the old man found out, Idbe in for another one.

When I was homehelping with milking that evening, I could see his sideways looksat some of the damage hed done, and when he saw that I couldntput the milking cups on properly because of the pain in my hand, Ireally thought I was going to get it again. But luckily, just then,an old truck pulled up it was the man from the pig farm up theroad whod come to pick up a dead calf to salvage the skin (whichwas quite valuable) and to boil the rest down for his pigs. Deadbobby calves were quite common at our place. Just two weekspreviously wed been trying to wean a young calf from its mother bygetting it to suck our fingers, and then lower its head into abucket of milk. A common method, but this little fellow was a bitslow, and of course the old man was on his usual short fuse, andwhen the calf wouldnt respond he gave it such a kick that weactually saw its lower jaw slip out from under its matching top busted in agony. He finished it off with a single blow to theback of the head with a hammer and tossed the poor thing out theback of the shed.