I sharpened the butcher knife on the whetting block. Dad had chalked a mark on one of the sheep. I separated it from the flock and, in the yard near the homestead, slit its throat.
‘It’s the way it’s meant to be,’ my mother continued. She was watching me in the yard. The dead sheep was hanging from the hooks and I was skinning it, punching the skin from the carcass.
‘Why is it meant to be!’
Mum shifted uneasily. ‘You are always questioning things, Simeon. Can’t you just go along with the way things are?’
The carcass was swinging crazily from the hooks and blood was spraying everywhere.
‘If I had been Uncle Matiu’s son,’ I challenged, ‘would this be the way it is meant to be?’
‘No. But Matiu’s not your father. He’s —’
Slice, slice, slice with the butcher knife. ‘Mohi’s dad, I know, and Mohi is therefore the eldest grandchild. When Grandfather dies, Uncle Matiu will be the chief. When he dies, Mohi will be the chief. In my generation he will be my chief.’
‘Your grandfather loves all his grandchildren —’
‘Not equally, Mum.’
The skin fell away. I made a cut down the underbelly. The guts of the sheep, still steaming, fell on the concrete.
Mum hesitated, not wanting to agree or disagree.
I pressed on. ‘Nor would this be the way things are meant to be if I was the son of Maaka, Ruka, Hone, Ruth, Sarah, Aperahama and Ihaka.’
‘But you’re not their son, either,’ Mum tried to laugh, and stood to help steady the carcass. I was almost finished.
‘No,’ I answered, my voice firm. ‘I’m yours and Dad’s son. I’m the first born of the ninth child and seventh son. Now —’
I let the carcass down and carried it to the chopping block. One blow of the axe and the carcass split in two.
‘Please don’t play this game with me, son,’ Mum said.
But I couldn’t let it go. ‘Another example,’ I continued. ‘Look at Dad’s elder brothers and sisters. Why don’t they live here at the homestead?’
One half of the carcass was on the chopping block. I took up the butcher knife again.
‘They’ve got their own land,’ she answered.
Slicing through the ribs. One rib after another.
‘And who gave them their land?’
Heaving the other half on to the chopping block.
‘Grandfather Tamihana.’
Cleanly, swiftly slicing.
‘And why, Mum,’ I asked, ‘do we and Aunts Sephora, Miriam and Esther still live with Grandfather Tamihana and Grandmother Ramona at the homestead?’
My mother would not answer.
‘I’ll tell you why,’ I said.
I was heaving with the exertion. I put the meat into the safe. Now there was meat enough for the next few days. My mother had taken up the bucket of water to sluice the blood off the concrete.
‘There’s no more land for Grandfather to give us. Even if there was, he wouldn’t give us any —’
Tears were brimming in Mum’s eyes. I took the bucket from her.
‘And you know why, Mum? Do you really want to know why? It’s all a matter of mana. Of our place in the order of the family.’
Flies were already feeding off the thick congealed blood. They rose angrily, buzzing around my head.
‘Turituri to waho,’ Mum whispered. ‘It is an honour to stay with the old people and to look after them.’
I shook my head. I took up the yard broom, intending to sweep the concrete clean of the blood.
‘We’re here not because of the honour. We’re here because the others in the family are older and have been given land and there’s none left for us. There’s something else too. Grandfather likes to have us here. We’re trapped. He won’t ever let us out.’ My mother tried to take the broom from me. ‘No, Mum. After all, this is my job, isn’t it? It’s the way it’s meant to be, isn’t it? We’re here because in this life there are chiefs and there are Indians. We’re the Indians.’
She gave me a long, fierce look. Her hand came up and slashed me across the face.
‘I never want to hear you say that again, Himiona.’
Just to make sure, she hit me again.
‘Never.’
That night at dinner, my mother and I were not speaking. Glory kept on kicking me under the table but I refused to take any notice. Glory hated it when we weren’t playing Happy Family. Later, I was doing homework in my bedroom when Grandfather came in. He looked at my books.
‘Why do you want to learn about mathematics?’ he asked. ‘And why do you read all these books? This one about China, for instance? What will that do to get you a job?’
‘Why?’ I answered. ‘It’s called getting an education. What I read in books helps me understand the world.’
‘The best education is right here,’ he said. ‘This is where your world is. This is where your job is. The only time you need to use mathematics is when you want to tally the sheep. I already have people to do that. Reading books isn’t going to help you put meat on the table. Books will only make you whakahihi, a know-all.’
Anything you say, Grandfather. Three bags full, Grandfather. As if, like my father and aunts, I was going to stay here all my life.
Grandfather told me that one of the cooks in Mahana Two had injured his hand, so the meat would have to be sent up to the gang every morning. I would be butchering every night.
‘Do you want me to get someone to help you?’ Grandfather asked. ‘So you’ve got time to read your books? I could tell Mohi to come back.’
Yes, that’s right, Grandfather, throw Mohi in my face. You know I’ll say no.
‘I’ll be okay,’ I answered.
After all, it was my job.
Chapter 13
The punishing work schedule put me in a rebellious mood. I was also at a stand-off with my mother, who had not forgiven me. She did her job, helping my spinster aunts; I did my job.
Up every morning at five to milk the cows, sir. Separate the milk, deliver all the cans to the kitchen, take one can over to Zebediah Whatu’s house, sir. Get the copper going for the washing, sir. At six, butcher one beast, skin, prepare for the kitchen and Mahana Two, sir. Wash and have breakfast, sir. Make sure that all the lamps have kerosene and do any other jobs as required, sir. Catch the bus at eight and go to school and have a nice long rest, sir.
After school, make sure nobody misses the bus, sir. Chop wood for an hour, sir. Feed the dogs and the pigs, sir. Move the sheep in rotation from one field to another, sir. As required, do some work in the maize garden or bag potatoes or kumara, sir. Have dinner and, if I’m lucky, May I now go to the toilet to have a shit, sir!
And always, Grandfather Tamihana was keeping an eye on me, making sidelong comments like:
‘Having a rest, Simeon?’ (I’d only sat down for a minute), or:
‘Not bad for you, Simeon’ (in other words, as good as can be expected), or:
‘I’ve told you before, Simeon, get your hair cut’ (that is, you’re weak like a girl).
Just to keep me on my toes.
‘He’s like that with everybody,’ my Aunt Sephora said. ‘He’s just testing you, to see if you’ve got spunk.’