Auntie Molly said, ‘I’ve got an old wood oven you could use, Huria. Oh yes, and a bath that is too small now — and don’t anybody make a crack about that, thank you.’
Even Haromi came up with something. ‘I’m going into town next Friday,’ she said. ‘I could steal some curtains from Melbourne Cash!’
One by one the inventory of what needed to be paid for began to reduce. By the end of the first week we had a real roof, doors that opened and closed, windows which had sugarbags over them and — a home.
Visitors began turning up with furniture they thought might come in handy. Maggie brought a coal iron. Uncle Pera brought a kerosene lamp and one day he asked me to go around to his place for a wardrobe with a full length mirror!
‘What do I need one of these for now?’ he wheezed. ‘I only gets a fright when I go past it and see that old man in it.’
The visitors would come to visit, pretend to be looking at nothing, but think, ‘Hmmmn, Huria and Joshua need a rooster for their hens —’ When they came back they would just happen to have whatever it was they thought we needed.
My mother was embarrassed about such magnanimity. ‘I’ve got nothing to give in return,’ she said.
‘Nothing?’ the visitors would say. ‘You don’t think we want anything in return, do you?’ But some of them would pause. ‘Well, actually, if you happen to have any of Mother Ramona’s honey to spare —’
Grandmother Ramona had gifted us not only land but also honey to barter with.
There were some items, however, that nobody could give us — fence posts, glass for the window panes and a new pump for the windmill. These things had to be purchased. I can remember clearly how proud we were, after many hours of frustration, when the windmill vanes began to revolve. We had been just about ready to give up and reconcile ourselves to carting water up from the river by drum when there was an imperceptible change in the wind’s direction. The machinery gave a jerk, loosening all the joints, and there was a wheezing like Uncle Pera. The sound of water came slowly gurgling through old systems and flushing up into the house.
Despite the fact that we began to go into debt with the wood mill and hardware store in Gisborne — and we plunged quickly into the red with Miss Zelda, Miss Daisy and Scott — such moments were magical. The final touch was Glory’s.
‘I want you to put this up,’ she said. She had a hammer and the sign she had given Mum and Dad at Christmas.
‘Whereabouts?’ I asked.
‘Over the front door, silly.’
Chapter 42
Spring came again, and with it the shearing. Once more the family gathered at the homestead with the families of Ihaka Mahana and Zebediah Whatu for the September thanksgiving meeting. The telling of the Mahana shearing history retained all its power and mana. At church, Grandfather gave his usual reading –
The Lord is my shepherd I shall not want,
He leadeth me beside the still waters,
He restoreth my soul –
Shortly afterward Haromi left school, tossing aside her school uniform with one hand and turning into an instant nymphet.
‘Watch out, world,’ she squealed, ‘here I come.’
Haromi tried to get a job in Gisborne, without success. She started to hang out with the bodgies at the Starlight Café. Two weeks later Aunt Sarah caught her sneaking in through the window after being out all night.
‘That’s it,’ Aunt Sarah said. ‘You’re coming out shearing. I’m not having you turn into the real Salome and shedding your veils for boys.’
Haromi and Aunt Sarah ended up fighting each other. Haromi moved to Mahana Four.
Dad resumed shearing and I was again the sheriff looking after the one-horse all-women ghost town of Waituhi. Grandfather didn’t let up on me either. One year in a boy’s lifetime, however, can make a big difference in the boy. I was sixteen now, and the ease and assurance with which I tackled the chores sometimes took my own breath away. Without realising it, I had filled out. I had also become taller and muscular and, ironically, seemed to be physically taking after Bulibasha himself. I loved it when old Pera told him this one day.
‘That boy’s the spitting image,’ Pera chortled.
Grandfather hated that. He hated the whole idea that I, the least malleable of his mokopuna, should become the one who resembled him most. I’m sure this is why he really rode me while the others were away.
‘You finished chopping the wood, Himiona? Good. We need three more beasts killed for the gangs. Then after that I want you to shift the cattle to the hill yard. And after that we need a long drop for the new lav —’
He tried in so many ways to run me into the ground. But something else had happened to me. As well as growing stronger and taller I had become resistant to his control and his mind games. Moving away from the homestead to our land had given my family freedom from Grandfather’s constant tyranny. In the wide gap that was developing between him and me, I was able to build a sense of independence, a sense of my own self. It was not just a matter of distrusting his decisions. It was a matter of trusting my own. That, though, did not stop him from hassling me, particularly on the question of my still being at school.
‘You’re useless, Himiona,’ he said. ‘Your father and mother are out there working their guts out. You’re old enough to leave school. What do you want brains for? You’ve got strong hands. Why don’t you help your parents?’
He almost won. One night when Dad came home from the Wi Pere station and our family were eating dinner I tried to give destiny a push.
‘We’ve got big bills,’ I began.
‘The shearing will put us right,’ Dad answered.
‘But we have no savings, and we still have to plant our crops for next year.’
‘I’ll do that,’ said Mum.
‘No,’ I answered. ‘It’s time for me to go out and work.’
‘Where?’ Mum asked.
I shrugged my shoulders.
‘In the shed with your father?’
Perhaps the way to win them over was to parrot Grandfather back at them. ‘Look at Bulibasha,’ I said. ‘He’s managed all right. If God had wanted me to have more brains, He would have given them to me at the start.’
‘No,’ Mum said.
‘But —’
‘Kaore. I don’t want you ending up in the shed, son. You deserve better. You and all of my children.’ Mum was trembling. She looked at my sisters. ‘All of you deserve better. Your dad and I want you to stay at school and get qualified. We want you, Simeon, to try for your School Certificate. Then maybe we’ll talk about your leaving school.’
‘But why?’ I asked.
‘Why?’ Mum echoed. ‘You want to know why?’
She pushed her chair, stood up, and got a piece of paper and a pencil. Then she sat down and slashed an ‘X’ with the pencil.
‘That’s why,’ she said.
Apart from not being able to read, my mother was unable to write even her own name. My father couldn’t either.
The next time I saw Grandfather I wanted him to know he had lost. I grabbed him with my parents’ obstinacies and wrestled him to a standstill.
‘I’m staying at school,’ I said. ‘Don’t try to make me feel guilty, because it won’t work. Mum and Dad want to support me.’
‘What a waste of money.’
‘It’s their money and their decision.’
‘And when you all starve over winter, boy? Words come easy when your belly is full, ne?’
I couldn’t help it. I laughed. ‘Why are you so frightened, Grandfather? Do you think I might be better than you?’
Grandfather was enraged at the suggestion. ‘You’ll never be better than me, boy. Whakahihi, that’s your trouble. Whakahihi.’ He raised his fists. I was no longer afraid. Sure he could still beat the outside me, but the me I was inside? He’d have a hard time there.