The meeting ended in a rosy glow. But I couldn’t help muttering, ‘The only other gang as big as ours was Rupeni Poata’s of Hukareka.’
Dad clipped me over the ear. ‘You’re asking for trouble, boy,’ he said as we filed out of the homestead to our cars.
As if I cared. There was church to get through yet.
Chapter 5
As with all things, the order in which the cars drove to church was prescribed by family ranking. Grandfather and Grandmother were in the first car, the De Soto, driven by Mohi; by virtue of being the eldest spinster daughter, Aunt Sephora accompanied them. Next were Uncle Matiu and his family in the latest model Jaguar; Maaka and his family in the latest model Chevrolet; Ruka and his family in the latest model Rover, and Hone and his family in the latest model Austin. Then came Aperahama and Ihaka, in second-hand Ford and Chevrolet respectively and who, because they had wives but no children, took my aunts Miriam and Esther. Last in the cavalcade was my father Joshua’s Pontiac, the oldest model of the lot, which had been Grandfather’s own car until traded in for the De Soto.
To make matters worse, this was the order that had to be maintained all the way to church in Gisborne. Thus the De Soto was in the fresh air, and the dust increased further down the cavalcade. By the time it hit us it was a duststorm of Sahara proportions. In the early days Dad had tried to make light of this by making us imagine that bringing up the rear was the most important place to be. He would refer to wartime movies like The Dam Busters where the tail-end gunner had to keep those dratted Messerchmitts away from the rest of the bomber squadron, or to westerns like Charge at Red River in which scalp-hunting Indians attacked the last wagon first. My sisters and I sat keenly watching our rear, waiting for Indians — we always sided with the cavalry in those days — or for the dastardly Hun to come at us from out of the dust. As we grew older we realised it was all a con job. We were not at the rear to save the wagon train but because our father was the youngest. Nor would any amount of success in saving the wagon train ever increase our chances of moving up a car or two. We were last and always would be last. No wonder we looked forward to the two stretches of te rori Pakeha as we made our stately procession from Waituhi and Patutahi, over the red suspension bridge into Gisborne.
No sooner had we stopped outside the church than the pastor came rushing down to our cars, his black robes flapping like Batman’s.
‘Happy Sunday,’ he beamed as we all stepped out. ‘My, we have a large congregation this October day! Happy Sunday, sister Sarah, how’s that be-eau-tiful voice today? And sister Sephora, my, you look good in green. Brother Ihaka, I’ve got you down as one of the ushers today, is that correct? Oh g-ood. And father and mother Mahana, it is so wonderful to see you both. Father Mahana, sir, you will read the lesson? Praise the Lord, what would our humble church do without the fine Mahana family to get us through the day?’
What indeed. Not only were we a devout family but every Sunday we all had some duty to perform. It was no good just praising good works; we also had to do them. This meant that my aunts Ruth and Sarah had been raised to be in the choir from the moment they were born; such a long career in singing had absolutely ruined their voices. My uncles Matiu, Maaka, Ruka and Hone were raised to be deacons and then part-time pastors in the church. Aperahama, Ihaka and my father Joshua were always on ushering duty, and Miriam and Esther came in every week to do the flowers. Whenever there were bring-and-buys, our table was the largest. If donations were required, the Mahana collection outdid everybody else’s. And because this was in the days of the tithe, before church collections became automated so that you could have tax rebates, our one-tenth of income was so magnanimous as to ensure our entry into the Kingdom of God.
I’m leaving the worst until last. Aunt Sephora was the organist unless, like today, I was ‘giving her a rest’. Today we were all on deck.
The bell was ringing as the family hurried up the path and into the church. To the left I saw that Granduncle Ihaka and his family were there in force, all with the exception of Riripeti who, of course, would never come here. No doubt Granduncle Ihaka had asked her dispensation for this special Sunday. Ihaka had sired even more children than Grandfather Tamihana had; like me, they seemed to be still waking up, trying to blink the pikare out of their eyes. To the right were Zebediah Whatu and his descendants, dressed as usual up to the nines. As the pastor came in with Grandfather Tamihana and Grandmother Ramona everybody stood. The preacher knew they weren’t standing for him. Grandfather bowed gravely to everyone as he walked to the front. My uncles, aunts and their spouses and families followed him. At the last moment Andrew Whatu and Haromi, my favourite cousins, peeled off from the main entourage and snuck back to the last pew, as far away from Jesus as possible.
‘Did you see the pastor’s new false teeth?’ Andrew asked. I had wondered why he was looking like Francis the Talking Mule. ‘They’re so Kolynos white,’ Andrew continued.
To which Haromi gave a droll look and lowered her sunglasses. ‘You don’t think I’m wearing these for nothing,’ she said in her low, hoarse voice, the product of too many smokes at too early an age.
‘I’ll see you two afterwards,’ I said.
‘Oh no you won’t,’ Aunt Sarah said. She had come to get Haromi to sit with her up the front. ‘I’ve got my eye on you three. You should be ashamed of yourself, Simeon, leading Haromi up the wrong track —’
What had I done now! Me leading her up the wrong track?
‘Where there’s smoke there’s fire,’ Aunt Sarah continued, resorting to her usual platitudes. ‘Haromi is coming straight home after church with me.’
I shrugged my shoulders and went up to the organ, pumping it so that it wheezed and coughed into life. The choir was taking its place and the pastor was standing in front of it. Grandfather himself had instructed that I learn to play the organ. He had said, ‘What else is Simeon good for? Anyway, playing the organ will put his hands somewhere we can see them —’ whatever that meant. No doubt, given his crack about my hair, playing the organ was also an appropriate pastime for a –
The bell stopped. The congregation began to settle down. The pastor turned and flashed a smile which sunburnt everybody in a trice.
‘And now, brothers and sisters, to begin our service today on such a be-eau-tiful day —’
‘Amen to that,’ somebody said.
‘We will have a rendition of “Love at Home” by our very own choir.’
Everybody went ‘Aaaah’. The choir stood up. Yes, mostly Mahana. The family that sings together stays together.
‘There is beauty all round —’ the choir crooned. ‘When there’s love at home —’
Aunt Sarah, as usual, was the soloist. Her tonsils were in fabulous form. Her vibrato was so wide she was singing every note between D and G at once.
‘There is love in every sound —’ I crescendoed, just to make Aunt Sarah work a little harder, ‘When there’s —’
Aunt Sarah cast me dagger looks. She gasped for deeper and deeper breaths, her lungs expanding.