‘When do we pack up to go to the shed?’ Glory asked Mum that night.
‘The shearing gangs come to collect us in the weekend,’ she said. ‘Once testimony-bearing is over, we’ll return to the sheds with them.’
Glory was getting into her costume for the tiny tots’ parade. It was the night of our school break-up ceremony and Glory was going as Little Bo Peep in a blue satin dress that had once been a blouse. On her head was a baby’s bonnet, and in her hands were a crook and a small felt lamb.
‘Don’t forget,’ I warned her as she twirled around, ‘when you sit down, hold your dress like so —’ I had made a hoop to go under her dress so that it would stand like a Regency ballgown. ‘Otherwise, your hoop will flip up and everybody will see your pants.’
‘We wouldn’t want that to happen,’ Mum said.
The tiny tots’ parade was first on the programme and, in the excitement, Glory forgot her instructions. Not only that, but whenever she bumped into anybody the hoop would slip backwards or forwards. Very soon all the little boys were bumping into Glory accidentally on purpose. When she eventually punched persistent Rawiri Jones on the nose, it was time for the hoop to come off.
Next was the school choir, conducted by a stern Miss Dalrymple. All the Maori parents in the audience winced as their daughters strained and screeched through ‘Cherry ripe, cherry ripe, riii-ippe I prrayee!’, enunciating in clipped plummy voices as if they were English broadcasters. That, however, wasn’t as bad as ‘In Dub-leen’s fairrr cit-eee, where the girrls are so prrre-tee —’
Ah, Miss Dalrymple. She had tried so hard with her elocution lessons and this was her one moment of triumph — her chance to reveal to the parents that every last Maori vowel and consonant had been knocked out of their girls. Or so she thought.
The end-of-year prizes were given out by Mr Johnston and required him to use both his hands. It was strange to see them so exposed rather than in his trousers. The certificates were read out in order, from the lower primer classes up. Every time a Pakeha got a certificate, there was a polite smattering of applause and compliments. When a Maori got one, the Maori parents copied Pakeha behaviour.
Clap, clap, clap of gloved hands. Oo, yaas, we ore ve-rry prr-owdd, which translated meant, Pae kare, we thought our kid was a dumb cluck.
I was second in my class after Richard Jenkins, the red-haired son of the garage proprietor. When I went up to get my certificate, Andrew whispered, ‘Brainbox!’ Haromi was hiding in a corner, disassociating herself entirely from me and the whole prizegiving. Even in coming second, I was being embarrassing. Becoming more Pakeha and less Maori somehow, because being Maori meant being dumb, always coming last and not caring about it because everybody else was dumb or last too. Or, as Grandfather would say, becoming whakahihi. Too big for my boots. Not staying in my place.
I didn’t care. Miss Wallace had told me what my prize would be and I wanted it desperately. Another H. Rider Haggard novel, Allan Quartermain.
Nor did I care that only the women of the homestead were at the break-up — Grandmother, my three aunts, Mum and my sisters. There were very few men at all in the hall, and certainly not Grandfather Tamihana. He said that school prizegivings were like flower shows. Let the women attend; the men had better things to do. I didn’t mind. It was the active support of women — the showing up, standing up and eventually petitioning for changes in Maori language and culture — which would, in future, change all our lives.
Our father Joshua and the other shearers returned on the Saturday night before the first Sunday of the month. As usual, we were late for opening prayers at the homestead.
Sorry Bulibasha sorrysorrysorry.
Then we were off to church. On that day I realised the real reason why we all met beforehand. It was so that we would make a marvellous procession on our way from Waituhi and people could admire us for our godliness. Mind you, we were looking particularly impressive today, in keeping with the spirit of testimony-bearing, the monthly highlight of church life when the faithful bore their testimony to God and the church, and unburdened their guilt in the process.
Outside the church the pastor was pumping everybody’s hand, greeting his flock with his usual exuberance. ‘Good morn-ing father Mahana! Hasn’t our Lord produced a wonder-ful day? You will give the lesson again? Praise be to God! And don’t you look just di-vine, mother Mahana, mm-mmmm! Oh, and before I forget, mother Mahana and father Mahana, may I thank you both for your oh so generous contribution? Praise be to those little white woolly sheep!’
Aunt Sephora was playing the organ today, which meant that Andrew, Haromi and I could hide in the back pew. Haromi was in absolute misery, wearing her largest pair of sunglasses and turning her collar up in an attempt to escape notice. Our one consolation was to find humour in the opening hymn, which had the line ‘And God’s love will never leave a sting behind’. When Haromi wet her pencil, crossed out the g in sting and replaced it with a k, we thought it was hilarious.
Grandfather gave the lesson. The text was taken from the parable about the good shepherd who has one sheep missing from his flock. He leaves his flock to find that sheep.
‘Amen, Father, amen,’ the faithful said.
‘Nobody’s to come looking for me,’ Haromi hissed. ‘Got that, guys?’
The congregation settled down into testimony-bearing. The procession of the faithful up to the microphone began. There they paused –
‘Brothers and sisters —’
Yes? What’s it to be today?
‘I have sinned.’
The catalogue of guilts, grievances and ills came pouring out. Swearing, shoplifting, carnal desire for the neighbour’s wife — you name it, somebody enunciated it. The sins also included grievances against members of the family — a spouse’s lapse from godliness, a son’s descent into Hell because he’d gone into the billiard saloon, a daughter’s first steps on the path to who knows where because she had drunk a cup of coffee. There were infinite variations on tear-filled eyes, trembling lips, groans, moans and shrieks and, at the end of it all, a pleading to God for forgiveness. As the woeful tales were told a collective sigh of regret wafted from the audience.
‘Amen, brother,’ or ‘The Lord forgive you, sister.’
Around the halfway mark, people’s testimonies began to be punctuated by muffled sobs from the pews.
‘Here we go, guys,’ Haromi said.
Two-thirds of the way and Aunt Sarah’s sobs had given way to explosions of agony, loud blasts on her handkerchief and gestures of melodramatic proportions. She was magnificent. Every time a brother or sister mentioned a particular sin, she would clutch at her left breast. Or swing around to nod at her nearest neighbours. Or put on her sunglasses and, a minute later, take them off so that we could see her tear-streaked face. Sometimes she would emit a gagging sound as if she was spewing up the Devil himself.
No testimony-bearing was complete without the testimony of Aunt Sarah. She was always the last to speak, and she was always the best. Accordingly, there was always a respectful half a minute or so of silence, the podium empty in front, after the second to last person had left the stage.
We all waited.
The world waited.
The universe waited.
Until with a loud wail up and down three octaves, Aunt Sarah forced herself up and out of her seat. Clutching at one pew after another, buckling under the weight of the accumulated sins of her month, Aunt Sarah staggered to the microphone. There, she stood like a shattered monument.