I should remind you that my father was already thirty-three and my mother thirty-one. Dad was the ninth-born of Bulibasha and Grandmother Ramona. As far as male succession was concerned, he was the seventh son. His eldest brother Matiu was ten years older than he was. His eldest sister Ruth was six years older. In the way of all things he could be easily overlooked –
‘Oh, what’s your name again? Joshua?’
When the eldest children grow up, they are the ones who inherit the mana, the prestige, the land, the succession. When that is gone, what is left for the younger ones? The ones like my father, Joshua, or my spinster aunts Sephora, Miriam and Esther? Born to elderly parents, their role is to stay at home when the others have left. To look after the parents and, in the case of my aunts, to remain unmarried.
But let me ask you, can you realise what it must be like to be the seventh and last son. To be on your knees in front of your elder brothers and sisters? In front of your parents?
Yet there he was, Joshua who never said anything or asked for anything. Thirty-three years of age. Ninth child. Seventh son.
Joshua.
Grandfather returned to his seat next to Grandmother Ramona. He waited.
‘Korero mai, Joshua,’ he teased. ‘Korero mai.’
My father began. ‘All my life, Father, I have lived in this house and I am grateful for you and mother Ramona for the roof you have put over our heads and the food you have put in our bellies. The time has come when, like my brothers and sisters before me, I should leave your kindness and make my own home.’
His words were stilted. Careful. Respectful. I wished he would look up at me so that I could flash him a sign, Yes Dad, you can do it.
‘What,’ Grandfather asked, amused, ‘have you done that I should even consider your request?’
‘I have done nothing —’ my father answered.
‘Good,’ Grandfather interrupted. ‘I’m glad you are aware of it.’
My father’s elder brothers smiled.
‘Except,’ my father continued, ‘to obey your every wish.’ His voice was like a guitar string struck right at its centre where the note would vibrate loudest. ‘Like my brothers before me I have obeyed you in every respect. Like my sisters before me I have acknowledged and loved your authority. I have stayed under your roof and been your hewer of wood and tiller of soil and have done all of this because of my love for you and my mother. But the time has come when Huria and I —’
‘Did she put you up to this, Joshua?’ Grandfather asked. ‘Is she the one who has turned your face against me?’
My mother shook her head. ‘No, Bulibasha,’ she said. ‘We do not turn our faces away from you. We have four children now and the quarters we live in are too small for a growing family.’
‘I will build another room on to the quarters.’
‘We wish to be on our own,’ our father said.
Grandfather sighed. He was dismissive. ‘Enough of this nonsense,’ he said. ‘I need you here, Joshua. I need you to cut the wood, to plough the soil, to bring in the meat, to look after me, your mother and your three younger sisters. If you go, who will do the man’s work?’
The question hung on the air. I thought my father Joshua’s cause was lost.
‘I will do it,’ a voice said.
Grandfather’s head swivelled toward the voice. He gave a quick laugh of astonishment as Pani stepped forward.
‘I will do it,’ Pani repeated. He took his cap off his head, came forward and knelt beside Mum and Dad. ‘It would be a great honour to serve your family, Bulibasha.’
Pani was handsome, shy and, at that moment, aglow with strength.
‘But why would you do this?’ Grandfather asked.
Pani turned crimson. ‘Bulibasha, I wish to marry your daughter Miriam.’
‘Miriam?’ Grandfather laughed out loud. ‘Surely, boy, you know she must be ten years older than you.’ He turned to Miriam. ‘How old are you, daughter? Thirty? Is your womb still ripe or has it already dried up?’
At that moment I hated Bulibasha more than I had ever hated him in my life.
‘Why don’t you ask for Esther?’ Grandfather asked Pani. ‘She’s more your age.’
Pani lifted his eyes to Miriam. ‘Although I have respect for Esther, as indeed I do for Sephora, my feelings for them are as I have for sisters. The one I love is Miriam.’
Made radiant by Pani’s love, Miriam came and knelt beside him. Grandfather became very angry. He stared at my father and pointed a finger at him.
‘You put your sister up to this,’ he said. ‘Well, it won’t work. Even if I was able to let you go, where would you go? There is no land left. I have nothing to give you. Nothing. It has all gone to your older brothers and sisters. Yes, once there was land, a little piece of the broken biscuit that the Pakeha left us. But the major portion of that land has gone to Matiu, for he is the eldest and the one who will carry on after I am gone. And what was left has already been divided up. You were born too late, Joshua. There is nothing left.’
All I could feel were tears of frustration and my sister Glory jabbing me with her elbow: Do something.
What could I do? Nothing, except take Glory’s hand and together with Faith and Hope go to kneel beside our father and mother, Miriam and Pani.
‘We too ask this of you, Grandfather,’ I said. ‘If you won’t take Pani, take me. I will remain behind if you let my parents and my sisters go.’ Glory pulled at my arm. ‘And Glory will stay too.’
Grandfather roared with laughter.
I began to rage inside at our helplessness — my mother and father, kneeling here with Aunt Miriam and Pani, they would never be able to get away. Never escape. Never.
Then Grandmother Ramona stood up.
‘Enough, Tamihana,’ she said. ‘Stop playing with them like a dog does a cat.’
She began to walk across the room to where my mother and father were kneeling. She paused a moment beside them. The hem of her long skirt brushed beside my mother.
‘You might not have any land left,’ Grandmother Ramona said to Bulibasha, ‘but I do.’
My mother gave a moan and began to shake her head. But Grandmother was firm. Her voice softened and she patted my father on the shoulder. My mother caught at the hem of her skirt.
‘You can have my land, son.’
At the words, Grandmother swayed as if the giving of the land were a giving of some part of herself. My mother began to cry because she knew how Grandmother loved that land and its fruit trees and hives: it was Grandmother’s heart and sanctuary.
Then Grandmother recovered. Resolute, she swept the room with her gaze. Her voice was authoritative.
‘All of you are witness,’ she said. ‘The land down by the river I give to Joshua, Huria and their children.’
She was gone out of the room before Bulibasha could speak up against her.
Chapter 41
At the end of that winter, my father Joshua and mother Huria moved Faith, Hope, Glory and me from the homestead to the land down by the river.
Grandfather was angry at letting us go, constantly arguing with Grandmother and trying to force her to change her mind. He gave my father Joshua more and more to do, saying it all had to be done before we left. Dad was stoic and patient, despite the fact that Grandfather always found a reason to delay our departure. Finally, exasperated by our wilful and stony silence, Grandfather said to Dad –
‘Go then, go to your mother’s land.’
Mum suspected, though would never say it, that Grandfather wanted us to suffer through next winter. There was little time to prepare the land for crops that would take bud and be ready for the next harvest.
Grandfather was compensated when Pani moved in to take my father’s place. Poor Pani, he agreed to Grandfather’s terms — after one year, Grandfather would offer him ‘my daughter’s hand in marriage’ — without really knowing the extent of his impending servitude. Every morning he was up at six. He was always at Grandfather’s beck and call. He did chauffeuring duties when required. If he was lucky he managed to get into bed by nine. One stipulation, however, Pani fought. This was that he was never to be alone in Miriam’s company. Pani obtained half an hour after dinner to sit with Miriam on the verandah.