Bulibasha, p.13
Bulibasha, page 13
Although Grandfather had turned to religion, he found it hard to turn the other cheek. Hot tempered, he squared off with Rupeni. Fists started flying.
‘Get off my back,’ Tamihana answered. ‘Play the game, not the man.’
Those gladiatorial fights – like Gordon Scott against Steve Reeves in Hercules Unchained – became the signal for fisticuffs among the other players. The fights were legendary.
Concerned, Ramona asked Tamihana, ‘Can’t you two mend the rift between you?’
‘Nothing would be closer to my own wish,’ Tamihana told her, ‘but it is Rupeni who wishes to carry on this vendetta between us.’
Came the day of the last trial – the Probables versus the Possibles. Rupeni was the captain for one side and Tamihana the captain for the other. Ramona and the Mahana family were all in the stand at the oval. Ramona was like the Princess Alisande in A Yankee in King Arthur’s Court. Apirana Ngata was sitting with Maata and the people of Hukareka. Out on the field it was a blood bath.
There were four minutes to go and it was likely the match would end in a draw, 15-all. The game had gone back and forward, up and down the length of the field. There had been five punch-ups. The people on the stand were baying for vengeance. The referee blew his whistle and called for the team captains.
‘Listen, you guys,’ the referee said, ‘we’re almost there and I want you to tell your teams to back off. You hear me? The selectors have seen what you’re made of, so there’s no need to kill each other. Aren’t you getting married today, Poata? Leave some strength for later! Let’s finish with a good clean game. Quit the rough stuff. Okay boys?’
Rupeni trotted back to his team. From the corner of his eye Tamihana saw Rupeni talking to his players and gesturing at him. The referee blew the whistle. The game recommenced.
Tamihana gathered the first row of the scrum around him. He saw the other side doing the same.
‘Scrum down,’ the referee said.
The two scrums bent, approached and locked.
‘Play ball!’ the referee ordered.
Rupeni, at halfback, fed the ball. Like a raging bull, Tamihana tried to keep on his feet. He braced his legs, locking his kneecaps to maintain the scrum. The further the scrum bore down, the tighter Tamihana’s legs locked to take the pressure, bracing it back up.
Then he heard a voice – ‘Sorry, Tamihana, you won’t be making the team.’
The scrum was being collapsed on purpose.
After that, it all happened so quickly. Somebody placed a sprigged boot just above Tamihana’s right kneecap. Tamihana could see it happening.
Not my knee, please.
Too late. The sprigged boot slammed down. A crack. The scrum wavered. The boot raised itself again and – a second crack.
The scrum collapsed.
‘On that day,’ Uncle Hone said, ‘our father’s entire sporting career ended.’
‘He couldn’t shear either,’ Aunt Ruth continued.
‘Whenever I see our father now,’ Uncle Hone said, ‘I cannot but feel anger at what happened to him.’
Aunt Ruth patted Uncle’s hand. ‘Whenever we play against Hukareka, all I want to do is to take my own vengeance. The pastor talks about turning the other cheek. Even so –’
‘Nothing was proven,’ Uncle Hone said, ‘but we all know that Rupeni ordered Dad to be taken out.’
‘Then,’ Aunt Ruth continued, ‘in the afternoon, after the football match, Rupeni Poata married Maata in the largest wedding of the year. The marriage was a double celebration – Rupeni was made captain of the side that would play the British team.’
‘And it was at the reception at Poho O Rawiri meeting house,’ Uncle Hone said, ‘that Apirana Ngata announced his wedding gift to the happy couple. It was something that Rupeni Poata himself had requested – a substantial gift of money to begin a shearing business.’
Chapter 25
Sometimes after dinner was over, if the sun was still hot, we went down to the river – the young ones first, followed by the adults who drifted down in ones and twos when they were ready.
‘Look after the kids,’ Mum cried, referring to Glory, Peewee and Mackie, ‘and don’t let them drown.’ As if I would.
Going down the track the little kids slipped ahead, yelling out to Haromi, Frances and me, ‘Hurry up, puh-lease!’
Haromi and I weren’t in a hurry.
In the shed, Haromi had her job and I had mine, and she kept company with the women. We relished the times when we could enjoy our private companionship and talk about all the things that were hassling us – school, church, Bulibasha, the family, being stuck in Waituhi and, of course, Aunt Sarah.
‘I’m so glad to be away from her,’ Haromi said. ‘I can’t even look at an old man without Mum dumping on me. Here in Mahana Four I’m free. No jailer to keep me under lock and key.’
‘Except for Aunt Ruth,’ I answered.
‘I can handle Aunt Ruth,’ Haromi sniffed.
We talked on until we reached the river. There –
‘See you later,’ she said as she, Frances, Faith, Hope and Glory peeled away upstream.
‘Why do they swim upstream and we swim downstream?’ Mackie asked.
Peewee was scornful. ‘Because they’re girls and we’re boys, dopey.’
A code of modesty prevailed during shearing which prevented the girls from bathing with the boys. When the adults came down the same process occurred – even if they were married.
‘Women to the right,’ Uncle Hone laughed, ‘and men to the left.’
Every now and then we heard giggles and splashes from the women upstream. Sometimes the water brought down swirls of soap. Once there were squeals of horror, followed by silence. A bra came floating down. Uncle Hone caught it in his fingers and lifted it up for all to see. It had hollows big enough to be used for teapots.
‘Hmmn,’ he said, tongue in cheek. ‘Must be Molly’s.’
When Uncle Hone went to return the bra, conspiratorial and offended silence greeted him. When he actually suggested it might be Good Golly Miss Molly’s, she slapped him. He had overstepped the mark.
The same code of modesty also meant that, although children could bathe nude, the adults had to cover themselves appropriately – shorts for men, and slips and bras for women. I was ten when my father said, ‘Put some shorts on, son.’ I had started growing hair in my groin.
The code had more to do with Mormon practice than with any Maori cultural attitude to the body. I have often wondered if this was why Mormons were so sexy. Even so, I found it astonishing to watch as my uncles and Dad waded in for a swim in their long underwear.
‘Gee, boy,’ they shivered, ‘this water is wet.’ They never seemed to like swimming as much as we did. ‘Too many eels in this river,’ they said. But they didn’t mind throwing white stones for us to dive after. Plop went the stone and splash, in we dived, following to see where it had dropped.
‘Throw us silver stones,’ we yelled, meaning shillings or half crowns. ‘We can’t see your stones any longer. Too dark down there.’
David and Benjamin were the best divers. Benjamin stayed under so long we thought he’d drown. Then, using the power of his legs, he kicked off from the bottom. As he leapt half out of the water he spurted from his mouth and flicked his head from side to side, spraying jets of liquid jewels. He was a Maori Poseidon, water streaming from his deltoids and runnelling down his chest.
Sometimes the shepherds came down and joined us. They were different from us, being without shame. It was astonishing to see their milk-white skin and the blond or red hair in their armpits and thighs – not to mention their you-know-whats. They lay down and started talking about women.
‘Well,’ Uncle Hone said whenever the talk started, ‘see you boys tomorrow.’
With a piercing whistle we alerted the women that it was time to go back up the track.
The tilly lamp was hissing, casting a white light throughout the room. Aunt Molly was playing Seven Hundred with Aunt Ruth, Aunt Sarah and Uncle Albie. Auntie Molly was calling ten no trumps. She loved putting her podgy hands on that bee-oo-tiful kitty in the middle. Uncle Albie was cross because he liked having the kitty too. He was calling ten no trumps as well. This was exactly what Aunt Molly wanted him to do. There was nothing better, if you didn’t have the kitty, than to take down the person who did.
Elsewhere in the room Glory, Peewee and Mackie were playing Chinese checkers. Haromi was being guarded from going out the door by Aunt Ruth. Much to Haromi’s disgust, David and Benjamin were both mooning over Frances, who had her nose buried in a True Confessions. Somebody should have told her that two birds in the hand were worth three in a bush. Uncle Hone and Uncle Sam were just finishing a game of chess. Uncle Sam had brought a wind-up gramophone to the shed, but only two records. One was ‘Hold That Tiger’ sung by Les Paul and Mary Ford. The other was a maudlin monologue, much in the rage, known as ‘The Deck of Cards’. The fire crackled and spat in the open grate. Then –
‘This black king,’ Uncle Hone said, ‘reminds me of Rupeni Poata, and this white king of our father. And these queens – ’ He held one up and then the other, ‘they’re like our mother and Maata. And this –’ he held up a bishop, ‘is Ngata.’
Throughout the 1930s Rupeni and Tamihana continued their battles for eminence. It soon became apparent to Apirana Ngata that in gifting Rupeni money to set up in shearing he had unwittingly expanded the arena of competition between two young men he greatly admired. Rupeni’s sporting reputation had won him many shearing contracts and he had quickly established as many gangs as Tamihana.
Ramona and Maata both tried to intervene, particularly when their children began to be embroiled in the competition. What concerned the women most was that whenever a Mahana and Poata gang met on the road they would fight.
Matters came to a head when one of our Mahana contracts, which Tamihana had been slow to renew, was stolen by Rupeni Poata.
‘If you can’t stand the heat,’ Rupeni laughed, ‘stay out of the kitchen.’
That remark started a battle royal in which the Mahanas and Whatus fought Rupeni and his sons boots and all. This was the first time that the eldest Poata sons, Caesar, Augie, Titus and Alexander, had fought Matiu, Maaka, Ruka and Hone. Nobody won. The boys fought each other to a standstill.
Apirana Ngata heard about that fight. Enough was enough. On his way from Ruatoria to parliament in Wellington, he sent Tamihana and Rupeni each a message: ‘Meet me at the half-way point between both your villages. At the red suspension bridge.’
‘I was a teenager at the time,’ Uncle Hone said. ‘I remember that day like it was yesterday. Apirana Ngata and his private secretary were already at the bridge. When Dad approached him, Apirana refused to shake his hand. Then, from far off, was the cloud of dust made by Rupeni’s crowd. When Rupeni arrived, Ngata refused to shake his hand too.’
It was a hot day and Apirana Ngata was perspiring. He was furious at having to delay his trip to sort out two grown men who should have known better. He faced both Rupeni and Tamihana and shook his head when he saw the extent of the bruises and wounds among their sons.
‘I was the midwife for your venture,’ he said, and pointed to Tamihana. ‘And for yours,’ he said to Rupeni. ‘I made your lives for you, but I can break your lives also. The trouble is you’re both intent on doing it yourselves, so no need for me to waste my time, ne? But I don’t want any blood on my hands, and this is my solution.’
The scene was straight out of the Spencer Tracy movie, Bad Day at Black Rock. Apirana Ngata took a large stick and scored a line parallel with the red bridge. The stick grated harshly, the groove like a wound, the stick a knife opening up the earth.
‘All the shearing sheds to the south of the line,’ Ngata said to Rupeni, ‘are yours.’ He threw the stick down in a temper. ‘And all the sheds to the north,’ he said to Tamihana, ‘are yours.’
Both Rupeni and Tamihana bristled. They were not used to taking orders from anybody, including Apirana Ngata.
‘Kua pai?’ Apirana Ngata asked.
Neither man wavered.
‘Kua pai!’ Apirana Ngata shouted. He jumped up and down in anger and threw his hat on the ground.
Then, ‘Kua pae,’ they said.
‘This was how the agreement was made,’ said Uncle Hone, ‘about which sheds belong to the Mahanas and which to the Poatas. Although Apirana Ngata is dead, we have continued to honour the agreement.’
The fire crackled. The embers glowed. The tilly lamp gave out its slow, steady hiss. Nightflying insects made tiny taps at the window, as if trying to get in.
Chapter 26
The afternoon before Christmas Eve, Uncle Hone lifted his sweat-soaked face and shouted, ‘Kua mutu.’
We gave an almighty cheer. At last we could get on the road back home and into our glad-rags to go shopping and celebrating in Gisborne. Even the shearing season has to defer to the birth anniversary of the Christ child.
Mr Williamson had arranged for an advance payout. I flushed with pride at the sight of my pay envelope. Nothing, however, prepared me for Glory’s face, so assured and nonchalant.
‘Why be so excited? This has been earned.’
Even so, I felt that Glory had better look to her mettle. Peewee and Mackie were gun workers and could take her dag box from under her if she didn’t watch out.
‘We’ll be back the day after Christmas dinner,’ Uncle Hone told Mr Williamson. ‘We should cut out the shed before New Year.’
‘There’ll be a bonus if you do,’ Mr Williamson replied.
He shook hands formally with Uncle Hone and Aunt Sephora and inclined his head to us all. Geordie was with him and gave me a grin.
‘Ladies and gentlemen, my son Geordie and I wish you the best of the festive season,’ Mr Williamson said.
We didn’t bother to wash or pack up. Everybody wanted to exit running. We piled into the cars as we were, smelling of dags and sweat and decorated with little curls of stray wool. The men drove like maniacs, tearing around the corners, over the culverts, through the cattle stops and around the bends, down to Tolaga Bay, the first sign of civilisation.
Tolaga was booming with locals. We stopped for food – pies with peas and spud on top, or fish and chips – and to fuel up the cars. Uncle Albie, David and Benjamin snuck off somewhere. Watching them go, Aunt Ruth muttered, ‘Well, as long as their tanks aren’t so full that Grandfather Tamihana smells the fumes.’
We hit the road again, alternating between dust and tar seal until Gisborne. Sometimes we hit forty miles an hour top speed, golly Moses.
Haromi was in the car with us. Batting her eyes furiously, she pleaded with Dad, ‘Please, Uncle Josh, puh-leez, I’ll do anything if you’ll just stop in Gisborne for five minutes. Only five minutes, oh please.’
‘No,’ Aunt Ruth said. ‘Bulibasha will be waiting at Waituhi and if we don’t get there the same time as everybody else we’ll be for the high jump.’
‘Oh, puh-leez!’ Haromi moaned, as if her entire life depended on it. ‘I haven’t got anything to wear for Christmas Eve!’
‘No dice,’ Aunt Ruth said.
However, something Haromi said made Glory frown. She jabbed me, Do something.
‘We should have a vote,’ I said.
Before Aunt Ruth could open her mouth to protest, everyone including Mum and Dad and Aunts Sephora and Esther had agreed with Haromi.
‘Aye!’
We didn’t have any good clothes either.
The change in Haromi was instant. Her eyelashes stopped batting – she had what she wanted and a girl should save her eyelashes for the real thing. Now she began to bewail the fact that she smelled of the shed and was still in her shed clothes. There were five of us in the back seat, but she squashed us to one side as she pulled a comb from her pants and began to backcomb her hair higher and higher into a beehive. She took out eyeliner and lipstick and leaned out the back window to look at herself in the rear driving mirror. As a final touch, she undid the top two buttons of her blouse.
‘Oh no you don’t,’ Aunt Ruth said.
A tussle ensued as Aunt Ruth tried to button Haromi’s blouse back up. With a sigh, and without Aunt Ruth seeing, Haromi flicked the buttons clean off.
‘Oh Auntie,’ Haromi said, her eyes wide with innocence and surprise, ‘look what you did!’ She was a tricky one, was Haromi.
When the car stopped in Gisborne, Dad yelled, ‘Only five minutes!’
Haromi was already out the door.
There was an art to doing five hours of shopping in five minutes. Haromi was the expert. Watching her was like looking at a movie going at double speed. The trick was knowing what you wanted. The other was to be pushy, a trait Haromi shared with her mother, Aunt Sarah. When either was in a hurry there were no ‘Excuse mes.’ There was no time for ‘Sorrys’ either.
Into Woolworths Haromi went, and out she came with cosmetics, new bra and panties. No time to shoplift; just throw the money on the counter as you leave. Next stop was McGruer’s, and out Haromi came with an H-line skirt and a voluminous petticoat to puff it up. Third was Adams shoe store, and out she came with a pair of slingbacks. Then into Melbourne Cash for some red stockings and –
There, in the window, was an imitation leopardskin bolero jacket. Beside it was a photo of New teen star Sandra Dee who appears with Lana Turner in ‘Imitation of Life’, Universal International’s new hit movie. Sandra Dee was wearing exactly the same bolero.
Haromi came to an absolute standstill and lost thirty seconds. I could see she was fantasising about being Sandra Dee except, of course, doing a much better job of it. She swayed, dazed, and then looked at me.
‘I must have it,’ she whispered between clenched teeth.
In we marched. The poor saleswoman was on the point of selling the bolero to a girl who would have fitted it perfectly, but Haromi yelled, ‘You can’t sell my bolero!’ The saleswoman rocked back, surprised. ‘I rang just half an hour ago,’ Haromi said, ‘to tell your floor manager I was on my way to get it. Didn’t you get the message?’
