‘He just fell into my arms,’ Moana laughed, ‘like an apple from a tree.’
‘Actually,’ David whispered, ‘she had to give the tree a good shake first.’
The dinner gong sounded. Over we went to the wharekai to join the throng and marvel at the meat, pork, fish, crays, watercress, kumara, potatoes, pumpkin which graced the long trestle tables.
‘Haramai konei!’
The local people urged us into their dining hall. Wasn’t the smell of hangi food, fresh from the earth oven, delicious? Look at all that other food! Titiro! Mmmm, Maori bread, fried bread, paraoa rewana, kina, oysters, pupus! And over there, pavlovas, steam puddings, trifles, jellies and soft drinks. Truly, the horn of plenty. How would we be able to lift our hockey sticks in the morning!
I saw more relatives — my cousins Donna, Cindy and Chantelle who used to be Don, Sam and Charlie Jones from Te Puia.
‘Hello, Auntie Huria,’ Chantelle said, and kissed Mum on both cheeks. She left more lipstick on Mum than Mum did on her.
‘What are you doing home?’ Mum asked.
‘We couldn’t miss the hockey tournament,’ Donna said. ‘Anyway business is slow —’ Chantelle hit Donna with her handbag. ‘Oops,’ Donna said. ‘Uh, we decided to come home to see how the folks were.’
My cousins worked days at Carmen’s Coffee Bar and nights up around the strip joints in Vivian Street.
Meantime, Cindy was eyeing me up and down. ‘This isn’t little Simeon?’ she breathed.
‘Yes,’ I squeaked.
‘Oo la la, enchant-é, formi-dable, mon enfant,’ Cindy answered.
‘Take no notice of that one,’ Chantelle whispered in my ear. ‘She went out with a French sailor last week and hasn’t been the same since.’
I saw Saul Poata ogling my cousins in a derisory fashion. Poppy was next to him and she jabbed him in the side: good on her. Most people were used to Donna, Cindy and Chantelle. Although they were loud and bright, like brazen and brilliantly coloured birds of paradise, they were still hometown boys. I was just about to go over and take a poke at Saul when Aunt Sarah’s voice cut through my anger.
‘We’re all wanted back at the marae,’ she told Dad. ‘Come quick. Now.’
In the meeting house the entire Mahana clan was clustered around Grandfather Tamihana, who was lying on his mattress. His eyes were wide and staring. Aunt Sarah was beside him, caressing his hands. We thought he had been taken ill.
‘What’s the problem?’ Dad asked Aunt Ruth.
‘Father has just found out that Rupeni Poata has been made chairman of the Takitimu Maori Council.’
The Maori council framework had also been a creation of Apirana Ngata. The Takitimu Maori Council represented the Gisborne tribes and was the forum through which Maori views could be channelled to government.
‘Why didn’t the other chiefs ask me?’ Grandfather said. ‘Why didn’t they consult me? Why didn’t I know that this was happening? Why have they done this to me?’
I had never seen Grandfather like this before. This was worse than mere physical illness. Somebody had made a voodoo image of Grandfather and was sticking pins in the doll. Here a pin at his right kneecap. Here another pin at his left leg. Now more pins thrusting through from front to back, viciously impaling eyes, mouth, ears, throat, loins — heart, head and soul. The doll was bristling with pins like a human hedgehog. Grandfather was in a state of psychic collapse.
By all rights, Grandfather should have been chairman and not Rupeni Poata. Somehow, Rupeni had persuaded the other elders to choose him. Was it because Grandfather was Mormon?
Grandfather raised his throat and howled. ‘My sons, my daughters, I feel so betrayed.’
In one fell swoop, Rupeni Poata had entered Maori public life and become top man in Gisborne. In doing so he had stolen Grandfather’s mana from him.
‘We must restore our father’s mana,’ Uncle Matiu said. ‘We must retaliate. We must shame all those who were involved in making this decision. We must also stand up for our religion. This year we must win the tournament.’
‘Hukareka must be beaten.’
Chapter 44
Mahana was putting two women’s and three men’s teams into the tournament. Neither Andrew nor I was picked for any of them, although we were school representatives. Grandfather didn’t think we were good enough.
Grandfather was still preoccupied by the news about Rupeni Poata. His eyes followed Rupeni wherever he went; he stiffened whenever his rival was congratulated for his new appointment. The thought came to me that Rupeni Poata defined Grandfather’s life. He had never dreamed that Rupeni would sidestep him by going into Maori politics — his exclusive arena — and that the other elders of Gisborne would agree to it.
‘You can do what you like,’ Grandfather said when I tackled him about Andrew’s and my omission and suggested we make up a fourth men’s team.
I saw Nani Mini Tupara from the non-Mormon part of the Waituhi Valley. She had entered two teams in the tournament.
‘Will you support me if I register a team?’ I asked.
‘Rebelling again?’ She laughed. ‘Sure I will. But if your team wins, I don’t want the trophy in a Mormon house. It comes to my house. Deal?’
‘Put it there, Auntie.’
When the tournament began next day with a parade on the main field, bystanders were left in no doubt as to Mahana’s intensity of purpose. There was something awesome about our march past the grandstand. Aunt Sarah had bullied us into wearing maroon sashes over our good clothes. She had inspected the Mahana teams and arranged them in height and order. Now, right out front, Aunt Sarah was bearing the flag which she had spent all night making — a huge golden angel glittered in the centre of a maroon satin banner. The angel was blowing a trumpet and, as the wind caught the flag, the angel appeared to be flying.
‘Whu —’ the crowd murmured.
Mahana won the march-past.
But who was making the presentation? When Grandfather went up to get the cup, Rupeni Poata shook his hand and then turned it into an Indian wrestling match. How the onlookers laughed! As for us, we should have felt triumphant that we had won the parade. Something in the mere fact that Rupeni had made the presentation made our triumph hollow.
It was all very well for Andrew and me to decide to field a team. The problem was, where would we find players at this late hour? Out of sympathy Dad and Pani said they would join us, but everyone else except Granduncle Pera, Mackie and Peewee had been taken. I was running out of time and out on the fields the games were beginning seriously.
Did I say seriously?
Two of the fields were paddocks from which you had to shoo the cows, sheep or hens before you could play. Sometimes the ball landed in the middle of a huge cowpat or down a rabbit hole. Some teams didn’t have enough hockey sticks, so either borrowed them from other teams who weren’t on their particular draw or played with battens or anything they could hold.
‘This is hockey?’ the red-headed Pakeha from Auckland asked, stunned. He was playing against the oldest hockey players in the world and, because they couldn’t run, three of them were standing in the goal. At least they were better than the players who hopped on, never having played at all. They were dangerous, slashing at the ball as if they were playing golf.
The majority of teams had uniforms, but some didn’t. Pity the poor referee: when two teams without uniforms played each other, he never knew who was on which side. They got confused too.