‘She wants to be in charge of the dags.’
Peewee and Mackie jostled forward. ‘Glory’s only a girl,’ they complained. ‘She can’t work as fast as we can.’ The boys were punching each other out in an attempt to get in the front position.
‘What do you think?’ Uncle asked me.
I nodded at Glory. She was ready to murder. ‘Possession is nine-tenths of the law,’ I answered, referring to the clapper boards in her hands.
‘And I got up,’ Glory said, ‘at three o’clock in the morning to get here before they did.’
Uncle laughed. He looked at the other boys. ‘Looks like you boys will have to help Simeon in the pens.’
I smiled at Glory. Satisfied? No, she kicked me in the legs. She mouthed a word — Pee-ay-why-ar-oh-ell-ell-
‘Does that mean that Glory’s on the payroll?’ I asked.
‘Hmmn, you tell her she’s on trial.’
Glory wasn’t having that on. She shook her head.
‘No trial,’ I continued.
Uncle hesitated.
‘In that case, everybody else’s dags will get swept away —’ I paused — ‘except yours.’
Uncle was trying not to laugh. ‘I call that blackmail,’ he said. ‘But —’ he turned to Glory, ‘it’s a deal, babe.’
Mr Williamson, the owner of the station and Amberleigh, arrived. With him was a young Pakeha boy of my age. One of the shepherds later told me his name was Geordie. He was the Williamsons’ youngest son, home on holiday from boarding school in Nelson. It was five minutes to six.
‘Good morning Bob,’ Uncle Hone greeted him. It was all right for Uncle Hone to use Mr Williamson’s first name, but the rest of us were not accorded the same privilege.
Mr Williamson nodded. He was a tall, austere man with a badly sunburnt appearance, as if he didn’t really belong in this climate. His skin was scaly, flaking off in huge yellow patches. He raised his hat to our women and then shook Aunt Sephora’s hand. As wool classer, she had responsibility for maintaining his reputation as a producer of wool of the very finest grade. She introduced to him the women under her charge — she had been doing this every year, and Mr Williamson still hadn’t remembered their names.
‘Well, gentlemen,’ Mr Williamson said, ‘and ladies, welcome to Williamson station again. We have always counted on Mahana Four for quality shearing and quality classing. When buyers look at my wool bales they know they will be of premier excellence. Your work has always secured us top price. I know that, as in the past, we will continue to have your sterling service.’
Murmurs. ‘Thank you, Mr Williamson.’
Uncle Hone nodded to Benjamin.
‘Excuse me, boss,’ Benjamin said as he went past Mr Williamson into the engine room.
Phut … phut … phut — with an explosion of blue smoke the machine started. The belt whined, accelerated, revolving the driveshaft to greater and greater speed.
‘Timata!’ Uncle Hone yelled.
The shearers walked swiftly into the pens and grabbed their first sheep of the day. They dragged them out and settled them within the curve of their legs. With one hand the shearers reached for their handpieces. With the other they pulled on the cord which would send them power.
Bzzzzz — the first cut. Right on six o’clock.
Chapter 20
One of the reasons I liked the shearing was that it took me away from Grandfather. The work was just as hard and relentless as at the homestead but, for a small space of time, I escaped Grandfather’s daily subjection. I think this is how my parents, sisters and spinster aunts felt as well. We all commiserated with poor Aunt Miriam for being with him in Mahana One.
There was a second reason for liking the shearing, and that was that Mahana Four was a second family. For six months of the year the family was mine and I was theirs. I had always been theirs — even as a baby, watching from the wool and having my nappies changed by whoever was nearest.
‘E hara, Huria,’ aunts or uncles would say, ‘he tutae ano.’
As a toddler I became a runner for whoever needed me — the shearers, pressmen, wool classers and cook.
‘Get me an orange cordial, boy’, or:
‘Wipe my face for me, son, the sweat is in my eyes’, or:
‘Tell the sheepo to bring some more sheep into the pen.’
No doubt I made a thorough nuisance of myself running here and there through the legs of the shearers, among the brooms of the sweepers, and around the dresses of the wool classers. Nothing prepared you better for the shearing shed than being able to negotiate the minefield of activity without tripping anyone up.
Then I graduated to helping the sheepo keep the pens tightly full for the pressmen or fleecos –
‘Come and jump in the sacks, boy, and push the wool down.’
Finally I worked my way up to my first real job and seeing my name on the payroll — picking up the dags with the clapper boards. I was so keen to get at any sheep with a dirty bum! I waited until the sweepers separated the bum wool and dags, scooped them up and took them to my special place where I sorted through and salvaged as much wool from the dags as was possible. There was always a place and a price for any sort of wool.
From the dags I had descended into Hell by becoming the skivvy for Aunt Molly. That had been the worst job. Keeping the kitchen clean. Chopping wood — lots of wood — for once the fire was started it stayed on until the shearing was finished. Cutting the meat, carrying water, peeling potatoes, carrots and cabbage — phew. I had been first up in the morning and last to bed at nights. But now I was sheepo. And my sister Glory was on the payroll too. I felt proud that she had attained that status this season. She had earned her position in charge of the dags. From now until the time she decided to give up shearing, she was a paid member of Mahana Four. Her pay might be only ten shillings a week, but it was hers. There was no greater accolade.
Two hours after we had begun, Uncle Hone gave a nod to Benjamin and the engine was switched off — phut … phut … fart.
‘Kua pai?’ he asked. It was time for breakfast.
‘Kua pai,’ everybody agreed.
The shearers downed their handpieces, taking a breather, having a smoke. The sweepers swept the board tidy. The last fleece was thrown on the table for my aunts to skirt, class, fold and place into holding bins. David and Benjamin cranked the top onto the wool press. Aided by Peewee and Mackie, I took the opportunity to fill the pens tight with sheep. Peewee and Mackie were doing pretty good. I had said I’d give them ten shillings each a week from my pay. Glory, eyes clinched in concentration, was being absolutely impeccable with the dags.
My father picked her up. ‘Come on, babe.’
However, as we approached the cookhouse — ‘Uh oh,’ Uncle Hone sighed.
A huge commotion was coming from the kitchen.
‘Come on, girls, kia tere! The engine over at the shed has gone off. Oh my giddy aunt, Willie! Where’s the hot water for the cocoa? You boiled the potatoes in it? What you want to do that for!’
Aunt Molly was on the warpath. Bangs, crashes, shrieks and foul imprecations issued from the kitchen. She looked out the door and saw Uncle Hone and the rest of us standing there. Arms akimbo she roared, ‘Hone? Hone Mahana, you just get your big black arse over here, you bastard!’
Although church-going like the rest of us, Aunt Molly had never been able to stop swearing. She did her repentance every First Sunday.
Poor Uncle Hone. He trotted over to Auntie Molly as meekly as a lamb and went into the kitchen.
‘What seems to be the trouble, Aunt Molly?’
Aunt Molly’s voice issued from the depths of the kitchen. ‘Don’t think you can sweet talk me, you bastard! You told me I would have a good kitchen this time and —’
Clang as something was thrown against the wall.
‘I find the same fucken place as last year. Didn’t you talk to Mister High and Mighty Williamson about it? Not only that —’
Crash of something on the ceiling.
‘How am I going to feed all you buggers when there’s only four hooks to hang the pots from! Then there’s the little matter of the stream —’
Splat as something, probably Uncle Hone, was spilled onto the floor.
‘The water is too fucken far away, the safe is broken and there’s not enough air in here for even one person, let alone my girls and my boy Willie. What the hell do you expect me to do! I can’t work miracles, you know, only God can do that and even He would have a hard time in this —’
Smash as something was booted by her foot.
‘Place. What do you think I am Hone? Eh, you tell me that! You tell me —’
We waited outside while Uncle Hone tried to pacify Auntie Molly as best he could. She was worth her weight in gold. Many a time Mahana One, Two and Three had tried to capture her, but her loyalty to Mahana Four was legendary. Not even Grandfather had been able to persuade her to come over to the top gang.
‘I’m sorry, auntie,’ Uncle Hone began. ‘I don’t know how you put up with us, year in and year out. Goodness knows we can’t manage without you.’ Grease, grease, Uncle. ‘All we ask is that you do your best, Auntie Molly, that’s all. And if the food is not up to scratch, even the crumbs off your table are better than a big kai at Mahana One, Two or Three.’
Auntie Molly began to sniff. Uncle Hone edged around the doorway and beckoned us to hurry up and come in. As we did so, we patted her on the shoulder –
‘Never mind, Auntie.’
‘We love you, Auntie Molly.’
To one side, Aunt Esther was waiting, and Faith and Hope were grinning with pride. So was Willie. The cookhouse may have just been a one-roomed tin shack with a long table down the middle but, despite her fulminations, Aunt Molly had organised the most splendid breakfast ever — porridge, sausages, bacon and eggs, Maori bread straight out of the oven, cocoa and cordial.
That was always the way with Aunt Molly. She loved us so much that nothing she did was ever good enough.