‘There’s only one thing to do,’ Grandfather Tamihana said. ‘Mahana Four will have to pull out of the championship.’
The newspapers had a field day:
They Won’t Shear On Sundays.
Across the nation editorials applauded Grandfather’s stand. From the pulpit churchmen preached the rightness of the decision to their flocks. Even the Anglican Archbishop sent Grandfather his congratulations. Hasty and urgent meetings were held between the Golden Fleece officials. Delegations of one kind or another trod their way to Grandfather’s door.
‘We can understand your Christian principles, Mr Mahana,’ they began, ‘but is there not a way around all this?’ In other words, Can you change your mind?
Part way through all the furore I happened to have a second with Grandfather.
‘Congratulations,’ I said.
‘What for?’ he asked, surprised.
‘Well of course Poata One will win now,’ I said. Take that, you sanctimonious bastard.
Soon after that, Grandfather became very silent. When delegations came to him he was not available. Finally he said:
‘Nobody can change my mind — except God Himself.’
He locked himself in his room.
‘What’s he doing?’ the reporters asked.
Aunt Sarah dipped into the room to find out. When she came out she looked as if she’d died and gone to Heaven. A thousand-piece Hollywood orchestra and chorus blasted us with holy music.
‘My father —’ she looked holier than usual, her hands clasped in prayer and eyes seeking a vision, ‘is asking God what to do.’
The headlines were predictable:
Tamihana seeks God’s advice.
Grandfather stayed holed up in his room for two days. The press contingent at the Golden Fleece increased daily. The whole of Masterton, New Zealand, Australia and Great Britain held its breath. Sometimes during his period of contemplation and prayer Grandfather came out of his room and went for a walk.
‘Any news for the public, Mr Mahana?’
‘Nothing.’
‘Will your shearing gang be in the finals?’
‘I don’t know.’
Aha. A ‘Don’t know’ wasn’t a ‘yes’ but it wasn’t a ‘no’ either.
Then one night as he was walking, Grandfather happened across Rupeni Poata. They talked and separated. The next morning, Grandfather went for another walk. He met Rupeni Poata again. Rupeni shook Grandfather’s hand, as if congratulating him for his firm moral stand. I didn’t place any importance on the meetings until much later. As for me, my thoughts were as heretical as ever.
A telephone booth. Grandfather Tamihana approaches, enters, puts coins in the payphone and dials a number.
Heavenly voice: wai koe e karanga nei?
(Subtitles: Who is calling please?)
Tamihana: Ko ahau a Tamihana he pononga o te Atua.
(Subtitles: A servant of the Lord.)
Heavenly Voice: Ah, kei te pirangi ahau ki te korero ki a Pa?
(Subtitles: Ah, do you want to speak to Dad?)
Tamihana: Ae.
(Subtitles: Yes.)
There is a click, a pause, and Jesus is trying to tell his father to get out of the shower to answer the phone. Then a voice comes booming down the telephone line.
Te Atua He aha to hiahia!
(Subtitles: So what do you want now!)
Finally, the night before the finals, when suspense was at fever pitch and the officials had pulled out all their hair, Grandfather came out of the hotel room. The reporters crowded around. I looked across at him.
Okay, Grandfather, break our hearts. Be holier than thou. Save your face and hide behind the church –
Whaddyaknow, he surprised me.
‘Mahana Four will shear in the finals,’ he said.
The headlines announced:
God says Yes!
Chapter 50
How we kept our heads in all that circus I’ll never know. Although it was fun at first, the movie-star treatment began to drive us up the wall. Glory summed it up. ‘Are we going home straight after this?’ she asked.
‘Yes,’ Mum answered.
‘Good,’ Glory said. ‘I miss our river.’
Only Haromi and Aunt Sarah, who was dying to get into Mahana Four, seemed to enjoy the stardom. She also pleaded with us to get some new maroon singlets or at least belts to replace the string on our trousers.
‘We are who we are,’ Uncle Hone said.
Why bother? We knew we wouldn’t win.
The night of the finals the traffic outside the stadium was bedlam and people were being turned away from the gates. The Golden Fleece officials were ecstatic. We weren’t. A full house meant more people to look at us and we were tired of being seen as freaks. Then Aunt Sarah burst out that three crews had arrived to film the finals. Oh great. Now our string belts, baggy pants and holey singlets would be seen in America, Europe, Asia and Outer Mongolia.
‘Ah well,’ Uncle Hone said. ‘Last time up, folks. Then hoki mai tatou ki te wa kainga.’ He was terrific. In one phrase he’d lifted our spirits.
Grandfather and Grandmother Ramona came down from the grandstand to say prayers with us. Grandmother looked so beautiful she made my heart ache. She was wearing her dress of Spanish lace. Her necklace glowed like moonstones.
‘I know you will do your best,’ Grandfather Tamihana said. Nothing more, nothing less. Then, escorted by Grandmother Ramona and Aunt Sarah, he returned to his seat.
The loudspeaker blared. ‘Ladies and gentlemen, welcome to the finals of the Golden Fleece award —’
Award award oh lord lord ord.
The teams were introduced. Poata One was on Stage 1. The Gregson gang was on Stage 2. Mahana was on Stage 3. At each announcement the teams ran out into the middle of the arena and bowed. The Gregsons had all been to the hairdressers and the shearers had shiny new equipment. The Poatas were spruced up too and they had woollen jackets given by a local sponsor. Then it was our turn. Same old rough-as-guts us.
‘E hika,’ Aunt Ruth whispered.
Under the arc lights we felt like ants being looked at from a microscope. Towering on all sides were the stands of people, hushed, waiting, filled to the brim. Every now and then a battery of flash bulbs would go off. We felt completely forlorn. Mum, I could tell, was just about ready to take off and run away from it all.
Good old bossy Aunt Sarah saved us. Seeing us standing there, so far away, she was moved to tears of pride. She stood up in her seat and let rip with a powerful karanga that soared through the darkness. The karanga told us how proud our people were, to remember that we were from Waituhi and to come forward now. Nani Mini Tupara, then Grandmother Ramona, joined her. Before we knew it, Mahana Four had slipped into a haka, moving forward under the arc lights like a travelling ope. Fearless. Commanding. Unafraid.
‘Ka mate ka mate ka ora ka ora
‘Ka mate ka mate ka ora ka ora —’
I felt so proud. Aunt Ruth was doing the pukana for all she was worth. Aunt Sephora, Aunt Miriam, Aunt Kate and Haromi were quivering their hands and stamping their feet, and when they advanced you knew you’d better look out. Uncle Hone, Uncle Matiu, Dad, Sam Whatu, David and Benjamin went out in an arrow formation to protect the women. They were gesticulating with what they were carrying — handpieces, broom handles, whatever. Peewee, Mackie and I brought up the rear. Oh yes, and Glory too, spitting and squealing her warning to all.
‘Tenei te tangata puhuruhuru nana nei whakawhiti te ra
‘A haupane! Kaupane! Haupane kaupane whiti te ra!’