Glory was sleeping in my lap. ‘Wake up, Glory,’ I said. ‘We’re almost there.’ She yawned and stretched. The country unfolded before us. Far off — was that the red bridge? Was that the Waipaoa, glittering far away?
— Wail-e-ree, I can hear the river call –
— Aroha, aroha –
Off in a corner Haromi was dreaming of the stardom that had almost been in her reach. Beside her, Mohi was strumming a guitar, plucking sweetness from the air.
We’ve lost our hearts to the river –
To the river Waipaoa –
Then the conductor was coming through the carriage. ‘Five minutes to Gisborne, folks.’
Scattered farms came into view. Then suburban houses, and as we sped past people waved and tooted the horns of their cars. They captured the sun in their smiles. Then there was Gisborne station ahead, a huge banner: Welcome home winners of the Golden Fleece!
Did I forget to tell you?
This is what the presiding judge continued to say –
‘The judges have found the judging throughout the championships a very difficult task indeed. In the process we have had to think clearly about our criteria. Speed, for instance, should not always be equated with being the best.’ There was a murmur of agreement. ‘To get there first,’ the judge went on, ‘many teams used unorthodox methods. I am not pointing a finger, but manhandling sheep over rails rather than pushing them through gates may get the job done faster but does not win points if we are thinking of sheep as an export product. Nor is shearing flat out but shearing badly conducive to the wellbeing of our industry. The object of the Golden Fleece competition was not to give the award to the fastest shearing gang but to the best shearing gang. Shearing just to get the wool off the back of the sheep was not what we wanted.’
The audience was beginning to prick up its ears.
‘Perhaps the most critical area of all is the wool classing. If our wool classing is bad, how can we expect to maintain our good name as a wool country abroad? Our judges inspected all the bales and found great disparities in the quality of wool classing. Again, classing for speed does not necessarily pay good dividends.
‘And finally, the pressmen. We have seen some wonderful displays of muscle tonight. But again, the emphasis has been on speed. It has been easy to tell a bale that has been packed down inadequately and sewn badly. Our bales of wool must survive journeys of long distance, during which wool is prone to expansion under tropical temperatures before it gets to our markets. Those bales must look good. The buyer must be able to be guaranteed a good quality product — not something which, like cheese, might have holes in the middle.’ The audience laughed. The judge waited for them to stop. ‘All this may be a long speech, ladies and gentlemen, but my fellow judges and I have felt it necessary to spell these things out clearly. May I reiterate that the New Zealand Wool Board was not looking for the fastest shearing gang. We were looking for the best.’
The judge coughed and cleared his throat. ‘Ladies and gentlemen, the best quality work comes from those areas where tradition and a history of practice has meant that skills have been honed, refined and distilled over many years. It should therefore be no surprise that the Jason statuette for best shearer and the first Golden Fleece award, carrying a cash prize of £5,000, go to the Gisborne East Coast and Poverty Bay district.
‘Could I ask Mr Caesar Poata to come forward to receive the Jason Award for best shearer for 1958.’
So Hukareka had won. I watched Grandfather Tamihana’s crestfallen face and, at that moment, I loved him. He was human. Vulnerable after all.
Caesar called his father, Rupeni Poata, to share in the glory of the award. They looked so fine and handsome together, standing in the arc lights.
‘Ah well,’ Aunt Ruth said to Uncle Hone, ‘better luck next year.’
That was when the judge went on.
‘Now, ladies and gentlemen — the premier prize. It is not often that the gang that comes third is awarded first prize —’
What?
The stadium erupted. People were on their feet stamping and yelling with joy. The judge kept on talking above the uproar.
‘The Mahana Four gang epitomises all the qualities of our shearing industry. They are of a Maori family with a tradition of shearing that goes back to the early part of this century. They are the only team to have entered as a family. Their work has been of the utmost quality. The judges could not fault their teamwork and their commitment to the job of good shearing. Their ages ranged from, forgive me Aunt Ruth, somewhere around fifty to seven years of age. I will remember young Glory’s concentration on the task before her for quite some time. Ladies and gentlemen, none of Mahana’s sheep was marked, cut or nicked in any way by their blades. The wool handling and sheep handling was of the highest standard. The wool classer, Miss Sephora Mahana, should be employed by the Wool Board immediately. Throughout the championship her work has been consistent with excellence. Special commendation should also be given to the pressmen, and, oh yes, the sheepos. Who needs sheepdogs when you can have such speed and finesse as was shown by Peewee Mahana and Mackie Whatu under the guidance of their team leader, Mr Simeon Mahana?
‘May I please ask the Mahana Four shearing gang to come to the stage to receive their award.’
Uncle Hone was overcome. He couldn’t speak. Then –
‘Will someone go over and get Dad?’ he asked.
I nodded and walked across the field. I bowed in front of Grandfather. ‘Bulibasha,’ I said. ‘Your family awaits you.’
His lips were trembling. He stood and walked with me into the limelight. The stadium was on its feet in standing ovation. It was the greatest moment of his life — the culmination of all of his years as a shearer, and fitting tribute to his dream. And when, in the gathering roar, Rupeni Poata came over to congratulate him, Grandfather Tamihana attained apotheosis.
‘You are indeed above us all,’ Rupeni Poata said.
Grandfather could go no higher. Acknowledged by Rupeni Poata as his superior, and therefore above even Hukareka, he had assuredly become in prestige as well as in name Bulibasha, King of the Gypsies.
Chapter 52
Although the joy and tumult was still ringing in our ears, my mother and father wanted to escape the civic reception in Gisborne and get back to our land down at the bend of the Waipaoa.
‘Come on children,’ Mum said. ‘Let’s get out of here.’
Just before leaving, however, I managed to have another few words with Poppy.
‘I don’t care if we’re on opposite sides,’ I said. I was remembering my friendship with Geordie and how that was supposed to be wrong too. I was angry at Grandfather for having constructed a world in which some matters had already been decided for me.
Poppy looked at me. Her eyes welled with tears. Then she gave me the most wonderful grin. ‘There’ll be other girls for you,’ she said.
‘Yes, I know,’ I answered, ‘but you’ll always be the first.’
I hugged her, and didn’t give a damn who saw. Then I ran out to where Mum and Dad were waiting. We had parked our old Pontiac by the station and cheered when Dad started the engine. Then we drove on home to sweet Beulah land. Oh it was good to see the meadow, the windmill turning, our house on the rise and our eternal Waipaoa.
That night, after dinner, our father Joshua looked across at Mum and coughed. My sisters and I were beside ourselves with excitement. Dad laid down his knife and fork and put his hands in his pockets. Mum wouldn’t look at him. Dad made a great play of searching in one pocket and then another as if he couldn’t find what he was looking for.