‘Okay,’ Uncle Hone said, ‘let’s get it over with.’
When we shambled out, me holding Glory’s hand, we were unprepared for the warmth of our reception. We climbed on to the stage and did what we always do. Uncle gave his string belt a tug — and the stadium hummed with amusement.
‘Well I don’t want you people to get a good surprise,’ he said.
Then Aunt Ruth started putting her hair up into a scarf and Aunt Kate shuffled into her old slippers and said, ‘E hika, my toes are poking out.’
Again, laughter rolled around the audience.
Finally, Mum kissed Glory, who ran across the stage between everybody’s legs and sat on her box waiting for the dags to come her way. When people laughed, her face grew grim. She scowled and then poked out her tongue.
Peewee, Mackie and I went to the big pen ready for the race to get the obligatory twenty-five sheep into the shearers’ holding pens.
‘Are you guys ready?’ I asked. Peewee was taking huge gulps of air. ‘I’m counting on you both.’
They grinned.
The starter had his pistol pointed to the air. His voice reverberated across the stadium.
‘Are you ready?’
Ready ready eady eady dy dy.
‘Steady?’
Steady steady eady dy dy.
The pistol crack echoed in the air.
‘Go!’
Chapter 49
Well blow me down and tie me to a lamp post. Mahana Four actually won our heat.
Grandfather was sitting with Grandmother Ramona, Zebediah Whatu and Ihaka Mahana when the winners were announced, and he just about fell out of his seat. Nani Mini Tupara, sitting behind the men, laughed and laughed.
‘Ana! Take that!’
The victory was trumpeted in the newspapers. The publicists for the championships knew a good angle when they saw one. On the morning of the second day there was the mayor of Masterton patting a scowling Glory on the head:
Family of God makes semifinals.
On that second day, however, the news was not so good. The semifinalists were fast, and we were up against the Robinson gang from Northland, Horopura gang from Nelson and Christie gang from Auckland. To bolster our confidence Aunt Sarah presented us with our maroon sashes — she had rung home for them and had them sent down. We were appreciative, but –
‘No, Sarah,’ Uncle Hone said. ‘We still look like hobos. The only difference is that we now look like hobos with sashes on.’
Walking out on Stage 2 was a different experience from the day before. Amidst the applause individual voices were calling out –
‘Come on, Hone!’
‘Show them how to throw a fleece, Auntie Miriam!’
‘Attagirl, Glory!’
As if people knew us personally.
When we lost our semifinals heat to the Robinsons, who finished way ahead, the audience was disappointed. Grandfather was shaking his head. Our luck had run out.
But what do you know? Our marks for quality work took us to the front. Another photograph — Aunt Sarah managed to insinuate herself into this one of Mahana Four sitting on a wool bale — flashed across the Press Association wires:
Halleluiah, they’re in!
Golden Fleece fever hit Masterton. All the shearing gangs were feted, invited to functions and treated like royalty. We were always surprised to be stopped and congratulated. Glory was very popular and hated it. People thought she was just adorable and asked for her autograph. Aunt Molly didn’t escape the limelight either. Although she said she was ‘Just the cook’ she attracted the attention of a food journalist who asked her what she fed Mahana Four.
‘Oh, dumplings, watercress, boiled spuds, kamokamo —’
The article on Auntie Molly came out the next day and said that ‘Auntie Molly’s pièce de résistance is a bouillabaise of a Hungaro-Romanian flavour in which carefully moulded boules of flour enriched with natural spices are marinated with cress au naturel, potatoes à la Provence and a piquant tuber found only in exotic surroundings —’
‘I’m keeping my mouth shut from now on, ‘Auntie Molly said.
Grandfather was in his element, his pride puffing up his chest like a pouter pigeon’s. Wherever he and Grandmother Ramona went they commanded a respectful audience. Grandfather had not lost his misgivings, but he had been surprised at the efficiency and precision of Mahana Four. As far as the finals was concerned, though, he didn’t think we had a hope in Hades. Mahana Four was competing against the Gregson gang, the home team from Wairarapa — and, of course, Poata One, who were widely expected to win. Caesar Poata was the fastest shearer at the championship.
Grandfather’s obsession with the Poata shearing gang had increased during the few days we had been in Masterton. In some respects he seemed more intent on their losing than our winning. I was watching him when he attended the semifinal shear-off involving the Poata gang. I swear that Grandfather never moved a muscle, and yet he seemed to be sending down thunderbolts of psychic energy designed to cripple their shearers or set fire to their wool. The effort was burning him out, turning him into an empty husk. As the finals approached, Grandfather became more jittery. Zebediah Whatu and Ihaka Mahana tried to keep him calm, but the publicity was having an adverse effect on him. The more Mahana Four got the spotlight, the more he worried about the reaction when we lost.
‘The Poatas have the better team. I know they have, because I’ve timed them. They are five minutes faster than the Gregson gang and six minutes faster than us. They will leave us in the dust.’
‘Ma te wa,’ Ihaka intoned. ‘What the Lord wills will be.’
Aunt Ruth tried to jolly him. ‘Father, you never know. One of their women just might eat something the night before and get as sick as a dog —’
‘Or one of their shearers might have a little accident —’ Uncle Hone winked.
‘Just remember the angel,’ Aunt Sarah said. ‘Didn’t the angel promise that the family would prosper?’
‘Ae,’ Grandfather agreed. ‘But it didn’t say we would win the Golden Fleece championship! Anyway, we need more than an angel to win.’
‘You should have more faith,’ I said.
‘Don’t preach to me, Himiona.’
‘We will try our best for you, Grandfather, but that’s all we can do.’
‘You must win.’ Grandfather would not let go.
‘Whether we win or lose,’ I said, ‘is out of your hands anyway.’
‘Oh is it now?’
Grandfather was still trying to manipulate destiny. Not content to allow history to take its course, he was trying to write it according to his dictates. He had decided to take up the pen, forcibly cross out the intended outcome of our lives and alter our destiny to suit his own expectations. The arrogance of that assumption was breathtaking. Driven by the history of the Mahana shearing gangs, and his active role in it, Grandfather could not contemplate anything other than a triumphant ending.
Then the roof fell in.
For some reason, perhaps to do with excitement, it never occurred to us to look at the date on which the finals would be held. Sunday night: the night the family went to church. None of the Mahana shearing gangs ever sheared on a Sunday.
Grandfather called an urgent family meeting, and in a flash resumed control. Once again his decision would determine our course. I hated relinquishing our freedom.
‘Are you sure the final is on Sunday?’ Grandfather Tamihana asked. He could barely conceal his glee. This was a wonderful excuse, the perfect opportunity, for him to withdraw the team. There was even dignity in such a proposal, and it would prevent all the embarrassment of a loss. I knew he would take it.