All of a sudden Rupeni stopped just in front of where Grandmother Ramona and Grandfather Tamihana were sitting. He bowed to Grandmother and, turning to Grandfather, congratulated him on the Waituhi Rebels’ win. I think it was only then that Grandfather considered his mana had been restored.
Just as he was leaving, Rupeni almost fell. As he passed by I saw that he was trembling.
The dance turned hot. Waituhi’s sense of competition against Hukareka was still running high, and the dance hall split down the middle. Waituhi lined up facing our partners — girls in one line and boys in the other. Hukareka did the same. We began to show off our dancing skills, trying to outdo the other side.
‘You think you guys are so great? Take this.’
The music got hotter and hotter. The steps grew more and more complicated. People started to leave the floor to the gun partners, and soon boys were throwing their partners in the air, leaping and falling into the splits and gyrating like tops. The Puerto Rican dancers on the rooftops in West Side Story had nothing on us. The hall was awash with verve and excitement. Haromi took my hand and pulled me into the middle. The band erupted into ‘Rock, rock, rock.’
‘Oh no,’ I said.
‘Oh yes, cuz,’ she answered. ‘All you have to do is stand still. I’ll do the work.’
Haromi was wearing a red dress that flared whenever she spun. She had learnt how to do French rock and roll and nobody could dance like she could. The floor cleared for us as Haromi dipped and circled and jumped into and out of my arms.
‘Go, girl, go!’ everybody chanted.
For one shining, elated moment both Waituhi and Hukareka forgot our differences. When Haromi span like a top — shedding her veils, as Aunt Sarah would have said — we were simply young men and women who felt so lucky to have been born in these modern times. We were kids from many villages, roaring our heads off.
Afterward, Poppy came up to Haromi and said to her, ‘Next year I get to wear the red dress.’ She turned to me. ‘You were pretty good too.’
The dance ended at one o’clock in the morning. Both Andrew and I had struck out in the girls department. I had met a few whom I liked but shyness always had a way of tying my tongue into knots. So my cousin Andrew and I wandered off down the road towards the meeting house. Half way along we heard rustling in a paddock and the sound of a loud slap. A red dress came through the furrows towards us.
‘Men,’ Haromi said. ‘Always after one thing. Look at my dress. Gotta smoke?’
We went to sit on a bank, watching the crowd as they drifted to the complex of marquees around the meeting house. The mood between the three of us sweetened and I felt absurdly happy.
‘Hey guys,’ Andrew said, ‘did you know —’
This was the way he always began whenever he had found something out.
‘Know what!’
‘You won’t believe this —’
‘Believe what!’
The moon came out and flooded the nightscape.
‘Grandfather and Grandmother aren’t married,’ he said.
‘Bulldust,’ I answered.
‘They had all those kids,’ Haromi added.
‘It’s true,’ Andrew said.
I scoffed at the notion. ‘Grandfather is too religious to live in sin.’
‘I heard Aunt Ruth telling Aunt Sarah,’ Andrew insisted.
‘So are you saying,’ I began, ‘that after Grandfather stole Grandmother away from the church they didn’t get married?’
‘Yes.’
‘But why not!’
‘Search me.’
Haromi, Andrew and I stared at each other, unable to comprehend. Haromi began to laugh and laugh with absolute and unyielding delight.
‘Oh fu-uck!’ she yelled. As if she’d heard the most marvellous news of her life.
Chapter 46
Everybody in Poverty Bay was talking about the Golden Fleece competition — everybody, that is, except Grandfather Tamihana. When Uncle Matiu raised the matter at our family meeting and asked Bulibasha if Mahana was entering, Grandfather laughed and said, ‘Why should we go into a Golden Fleece competition? We’re already the best! Waste of time even having a competition. They should give us the prize and save money.’
‘Father,’ Uncle Hone answered, ‘we have to be in to win.’ All the families in Waituhi were feeling the pinch and had pinned their hopes on this shearing competition.
‘In?’
‘In the competition. If we don’t register we can’t compete.’
Grandfather stood up. ‘This is nonsense,’ he said. ‘I will hear no more of this. If the Wool Board want the Mahana family to compete, they can come to ask me.’
In the end his hand was forced. Rupeni Poata, who never stood on his dignity, made it clear that Hukareka would enter the competition.
On Friday night, the closing day for entries, the Mahana clan gathered at Waituhi and drove together to Gisborne to register for the Gisborne-East Coast provincial finals. The venue for registration was the city council chambers, and the mayor had decided to make an occasion of the event. He’d even organised a local orchestra to play oldtime songs just outside the signing area.
Outside the chambers, Grandfather took Grandmother Ramona’s hand, and arm in arm they walked up the entrance to where the mayor was waiting. Grandmother was wearing a hat with a veil covering her face.
‘How do you do, Tamihana,’ the mayor greeted him.
‘All this trouble just for me?’ Grandfather responded curtly. ‘Why didn’t you just nominate one of my gangs to represent the province?’
‘Are all of them entering?’ the mayor asked.
‘Yes.’
The forms were duly signed. The mayor kept talking to Grandfather until –
‘Ah, here he is,’ the mayor said.
Pulling up outside were Rupeni Poata and his family. It was clear that the mayor had arranged a publicity stunt. Rupeni, resplendent in pinstripe suit and with a white carnation in his hand, got out of his Buick with a radiant and proud Poppy.
‘I see,’ Rupeni Poata said when he reached the signing area, ‘that my old friend Bulibasha will be endeavouring to claim the prize.’ His tone was light, but Grandfather took it as a challenge. He stiffened and made ready to escort Grandmother out. At that moment a photographer from the Gisborne Herald called out –
‘Gentlemen, can we have a photograph?’
‘I wish you the best, Tamihana,’ Rupeni Poata said. He extended his hand in friendship. Grandfather had no option but to shake it. The flashbulb flashed.
‘Let us go,’ Grandfather said. He took Grandmother’s arm again.
Just as we were leaving, the wind lifted Grandmother’s veil so that we could see her pallid, grief-stricken features. The orchestra struck up another song. Until that moment Rupeni Poata had maintained his diplomacy and manners. The melody came soaring out of the violins.
— Ramona, I hear the mission bells above –
Oh no.
When I looked back, Rupeni Poata had regained his composure. Poppy by his side, he watched as we stepped into our cars and sped away into the night.
The next day’s edition of the Gisborne Herald carried the photograph of Grandfather shaking hands with Rupeni Poata on the front page. The accompanying report was headlined:
Friends wish each other well in Golden Fleece Competition
Pictured above are two of the best known Maori citizens in the district, Mr Rupeni Poata and Mr Tamihana Mahana. As a young man Mr Poata was a well-known sportsman and he and Mr Mahana were often pitted against each other. Their friendly rivalry will again take place when their shearing gangs compete for the Gisborne and East Coast Golden Fleece provincial finals …