The familiar one he would lay his head on when darkness fell at home.
I had to surmise that the lad was walking home after dad had arrived to pick him up from a sleepover.
It had to be... because his hair was sort of ruffled up and his happy facial expression appeared to betray something else. He looked happily tired. Ahhh, the sleepover. Every host parent's uncertain adventure. And every parent's (of the guests) night off.
It may have been a birthday or it may have simply been one of his chums convincing mum and dad to let him have a couple of his mates over for the night... to explore the hunting and elimination of aliens who live in electronic devices which plug into high-definition plasma screens. And to see who can pass wind loudest.
And the traditional midnight feast... that journey on tiptoes to the fridge where the remains of the chook they had for tea is nestled. Of course mum and dad hear the whispers and the fridge door quietly opening and later shutting but at the time let it be... because kids will be kids.
In the morning the host folks would remark something along the lines of "gosh, we must have eaten more chicken last night than we thought".
And the four boys at the table spilling their cornflakes and milk on the lino below look at each other and sort of snort as they do their best not to laugh out loud. I had a couple of sleepovers when I was still a year or so away from teenagehood, although the term itself is a slightly erroneous one as the one thing most kids don't get a lot of is a lot of sleep. Plenty of chatter and shining torches deep into the night, though. And the midnight kitchen raids, with the host lad or little lady leading the way as he or she know exactly where the creaky floorboards lie.
On two occasions I stayed on farms far away from the comfortable and familiar surroundings of my bed, which lay amidst familiar litter in a room housing three boys. The daytime was fine, but when night fell I got spooked up a little.
My chum (whose uncle was a farm manager down Raukawa way) was well used to it as he'd spent many a weekend down there.
But I was rattled by the fact I couldn't hear anything. A most eerie silence.
Except for (deep in the darkest slice of the long night) the distant sound of a screech from a creature I could not imagine. I longed for the soothing sound of a passing freight train running on the steel rails within spitting distance of our back yard at home. And the sounds of distant sirens and backfires and horns. The sounds of humanity in action. In the country I simply heard inhumanity in action. Strange creatures in the nearby tall trees which sounded nothing like the gulls or the great ravens which in those years inhabited the Norfolk pines along the Marine Parade. I'm sure they were screeching my name.
So like the kids who embark on sleepovers in urban neighbourhoods and who stay up all night talking, shining torches, telling strange tales, creeping through hallways on a path to the fridge door and generally loudly expelling air from both ends, I got little sleep in the silent country. And when the roosters started up at 4.30am, well, that was pretty well it for me. But it was an adventure, of sorts, and a small step toward independence... being away from home. That kid I saw likely went home and had an early night, before waking up refreshed and inspired by the whole idea. "Can we have a sleepover here next Saturday night? There'll only be 14 of us."
Roger Moroney is a journalist for Hawke's Bay Today.
