Even at the railway station Grandfather was still scheming, trying to convince Uncle Hone to relinquish his rights as leader to his eldest brother Matiu. From somewhere in the stratosphere Uncle Hone found the strength to say, ‘No, Father Mahana. You gave me Mahana Four. You said it was mine. You cannot tell me to step down from being the head of Mahana Four. It is my family.’
I had indeed brought down Olympus.
Publicity about the special train to Masterton had spread over all the island. Whenever the train stopped along the way people were there to wish us luck and congratulations. Some were relatives from Waituhi who were pining just for a short glimpse of a mum, dad, aunt or uncle. In the end — what the heck — some jumped on and came down with us.
At Waipukurau there was a surprise visitor — Lloyd, in a wheelchair, trying to make sounds with his mouth. Mahana Two were overjoyed to see their old friend. The women shed a tear or two. The men yarned to him as if he was the same old Lloyd. When he saw Grandfather Tamihana and Grandmother Ramona he tried to take Grandfather’s hand to kiss it.
‘Th-an-k y-ou,’ he enunciated. He was still on the payroll.
The carriage was quiet after Waipukurau. Lloyd had reminded us of our mortality. He had also made me remember the deep love and respect that people had for Grandfather. When had my relationship with Bulibasha started to go wrong? Or did the ‘when’ really matter? The relationship was broken — that was the reality. And it was not entirely my fault. Grandfather just did not want the world to change. I was a new generation. Somewhere between both lay the reason.
‘Masterton next stop,’ the conductor called.
‘Here we go,’ Uncle Hone gulped.
We started to clean up our carriages and change for the reception we knew was awaiting us. When the train steamed to a halt it seemed that all of Masterton was there — including, to Haromi’s delight, an international film crew who asked her to pose for them on a bale of wool. In a trice her cleavage deepened and her skirt developed a split up the side.
‘I’m the mother! I’m the mother!’ Aunt Sarah cried. She tried to join her daughter in the photograph. Like a true professional Haromi just happened to cross her legs — and kick Aunt Sarah off the bale. There were no flies on Haromi.
The mayor of Masterton said a few words of welcome and offered us all the hospitality of the town.
‘I hope you will not mind,’ he said, ‘but we have a ticker tape parade arranged for all the teams and supporters tonight.’
Did we mind? Not a bit.
People were lined on either side of the road, cheering like mad as we joined the other finalists in a cavalcade of floats down the main street. For this inaugural contest the floats comprised a historical pageant, showing the coming of the first sheep to New Zealand and the development of the wool industry. Some of the floats had models parading woollen garments. Others had bands playing songs like ‘Click Go the Shears Boys, Click Click Click’. There were marching girls, high-stepping along with us, and highland bands playing Scottish songs. Way up front were the Kahungunu Maori Culture Club, singing their hearts out.
The buses were going so slow that Andrew and I pleaded to be let off to march along with the parade — our legs needed the exercise. At that suggestion everybody wanted to pile out too, even old Uncle Pera. Somewhere along the way Haromi got lost, and when we next saw her she was being filmed blowing kisses at us from a long white limousine. How did she manage to get there?
Somebody bumped into me from the back. Poppy. She was laughing and so excited that we did a little dance together in the middle of the street. Full of bravery I pulled her to me and kissed her. She struggled but I held on. I was enjoying it. I had heard that you were supposed to put your tongue down the girl’s throat, but Poppy’s teeth were clamped tight. Aha, but on the side there was a gap and — ouch! Poppy was furious.
‘Oh, you —’
She pushed me away and slapped me hard. Then she ran off.
At last the parade reached the showgrounds where the competition would take place. Streamers were flying, banners were waving and at the entrance was hung a huge golden cloud, glowing with fluorescent lights. The Golden Fleece. Just at that moment three jet planes from Ohakea airbase whooshed across the grounds and vertically into the sky. The planes took my heart up with them.
Later that night, following the official reception, fireworks lit the showground.
‘Are we really here?’ Glory asked.
‘Yes,’ I answered.
She saw that I was lost to the stars. ‘Don’t forget your promise,’ she said.
‘What promise!’
‘You said you would never leave me, Simeon.’
I took Glory’s hand.
We had arrived.
Chapter 48
Imagine this if you can. A bright Wairarapa morning. The sky has just been washed, rinsed and hung out to dry. A traffic officer, all spit and polish in white uniform, directs the line of cars which, today, are all heading to one place — a stadium with a sparkling golden cloud hovering over the entrance.
‘There it is!’
The traffic is directed to park in fields next to the stadium. Family groups are walking swiftly to the entrance, queuing for tickets, bustling through the turnstiles to get a good seat.
‘Let’s find a good seat, Dad. Over there! See?’
The women wear floral dresses and hats. The men wear long trousers and sports coats. The teenagers and children assume an insouciant air, dressed in fashions straight out of the New Zealand Woman’s Weekly. Families have brought hats against the sun, and picnic baskets.
‘Would you like a programme, madam?’ The programme sellers are pretty teenage girls from the local schools. They wear Golden Fleece sashes across their shoulders.
‘Thank you, dear!’
The children want ice creams and pink candyfloss. They settle down for the curtain raiser about to begin.
‘What’s first on the programme, Dad?’
A marching team is performing intricate manoeuvres on the green, right in front of the main seating area. The girls look smart and pretty with braided military jackets, white skirts and white boots. Their leader twirls her baton and blows short sharp whistle commands. The team’s choreography dissolves from military two-step into a ferris wheel pattern, a high-stepping box pattern and back into a perfect single line slow-marching towards the stadium.
‘Oh well done, girls!’
While the girls are marching, local carpenters are still hammering away and adding the final touches to the three stages which have been erected in the middle of the arena.
‘Goodness, will they be finished on time, Dad?’
The stages, marked Stage 1, Stage 2 and Stage 3, are arranged facing each other in a horseshoe shape. This way the shearing gangs can keep an eye on one another as they compete in the heats. The arrangement also means that no matter where you are sitting in the audience, you will have a good view of all the stages.
At the front of each stage is the shearer’s board, with five positions for the shearers in each gang. The board is just wide enough for the sweepers, wool handlers and person on the dags to do their work.
‘They’ll have to be careful, love, otherwise they’ll fall off!’
To one side of the board is the fleecos’ table, where the fleece will be thrown and the sacks for the skirting pieces. Close to the table is the wool press. Behind the board are the shearer’s holding pens and behind them are the bigger pens where the sheep are already waiting to be shorn. That’s where the sheepos will work. When the sheep have been shorn, down they’ll slide to the front of the horseshoe, where the judges will look at them and judge the quality of the shearers’ work.