The mirror in the bathroom at the homestead was hung so high on the wall that usually all I ever saw was my forehead. This was because Grandfather Tamihana was over six feet tall and so were most of my uncles. As a consequence my forehead became the most well-known part of my body and I have watched it grow higher as I have grown older. In those days, though, my forehead was pretty close to my eyebrows but not so close that anybody could accuse me of having werewolf ancestry.
A couple of blocks of wood to stand on did the trick. There I was. All five feet six inches of me. At fourteen I wasn’t handsome, but I wasn’t plain either. My hair had a tendency to stick out all over the place but at least it hid my big ears. I couldn’t do anything about that big Mahana nose, but all in all, not a bad looker — and all man. All sex machine. Eyes that could look soulful and wicked at the same time. A nose that flared at the nostrils like a stallion. Lips perhaps a little on the generous side but you wouldn’t be able to miss those beauties in the dark.
Mohi, The Magnificent Turd, came in. ‘Once a short arse,’ he said, ‘always a short arse.’
He proceeded to elbow me out of the way and to bend — like my uncles he too was at least six feet — to comb his thick wavy hair. A few self-regarding winks and smiles later, and a poking out of his tongue to see if it was yellow and –
‘If you’ve got it, you’ve got it,’ he said.
‘Why all the fuss?’ I asked. ‘You’re only going to the shed.’
Mohi had left school three years previously. He was free, out of jail and on the payroll with his father’s shearing gang, Mahana One. My cousins Andrew and Haromi and my sisters and I still had to go to school for another month before helping out in Mahana Three.
Mohi gave me a smirk. ‘It’s the early worm,’ he said, indicating his crotch, ‘that catches the birds.’
Oh, gross.
‘Hey, Mohi!’ I shouted when he was safely out of hearing. ‘You forgot to shave your palms!’
Roll over and die, Mohi.
Across the sunlight, I caught a glimpse of Grandfather Tamihana. He was standing with his walking stick today; his leg must be playing up. Beside him were his brother Ihaka and Zebediah Whatu, and they were talking with Uncles Matiu, Maaka, Ruka and Hone. The shearers were loading up the truck and cars, each of which bore the simple logo: mahana. What more needed to be said?
Mohi walked over to Grandfather to say goodbye. Grandfather feinted at him with his left fist and Mohi weaved and feinted back with his right. I envied Mohi his easy familiarity with Grandfather. Then Grandfather rolled up his sleeve and offered Mohi his right arm. They started to Indian wrestle, Mohi straining to beat Grandfather. But slowly Grandfather forced his arm down in defeat.
‘I’m going to get you one day, Grandfather!’ Mohi yelled.
Grandfather laughed. Then he saw me and waved my father over to him. Dad nodded and came over to where I was standing.
‘Simeon,’ Dad said, ‘you’re going to have to look after the homestead while I’m away. Be obedient to your grandfather and grandmother, especially your grandfather. He is remaining behind because he still has a big job to do sorting all the paperwork and making sure everything goes smoothly. He has his job and you have yours.’
‘Yes, Dad.’
‘Look after your mother, aunts, sisters and the rest of the family. It won’t be for long, son. Once school is over we’ll close up the homestead and you can all come out and join us.’ He went to put his arms around my shoulder but I shrugged him off. I looked at Grandfather still talking to Mohi.
‘Why couldn’t Grandfather have told me himself?’
‘He asked me to tell you.’
‘If he had told me, everybody would realise my job was as important as theirs.’
‘When my brothers and I were your age we all had to take our turn looking after the women and children.’
I shook my head. ‘No, Dad. You did, but not the others. Now I have to do it.’
‘I don’t want any arguments. Goodbye, son.’ My father walked back to the truck.
I ran after him. ‘Hey, Dad,’ I said, ‘you’re the greatest shearer of the lot. The best!’
He smiled at me. ‘How come then,’ he asked, ‘I’m still on the Number 2 stand?’
It was on the tip of my tongue to say, Because Uncle Hone is older than you and the boss. But just then Pani called out, ‘Aren’t you coming, Simeon?’
Grandfather Tamihana turned to him. ‘Better for all of us that Simeon stays here,’ he said. ‘He’ll only want to read his schoolbooks at the shed and forget about being sheepo.’
I guess he meant it as a joke, but I felt embarrassed, especially as Mohi was cackling with scorn. I knew full well Grandfather’s contempt for education; after all, he hadn’t been educated, and look at him now.
Grandmother Ramona came to my rescue. ‘Leave the boy alone,’ she said to Grandfather. Mum and Aunts Sephora, Miriam and Esther joined her to say goodbye to the men; Miriam blushed when Pani looked across at her. There were no kisses, no sentimental goodbyes. This was simply something that had to be done.
Grandfather raised a hand.
‘Ma te Atua koutou e manaaki,’ he prayed.
‘Amine,’ the shearers replied.
Chapter 9
There are some souls, like Grandfather Tamihana, whom God signs contracts with before they are born. You can tell who they are when something shows up in the manner of their birth or in their accomplishments as young men or women.
How else can you explain why some people are blessed in terms of physical attributes and others not? Why some are tall and others are short? Why some have fabulous hair which they will keep all their lives and why others, like me, will always worry about losing theirs before they are thirty? God also marks such souls with a special blessing. In some cases it is astounding beauty, like Helen of Troy or red-headed Rhonda Fleming. In my grandfather’s case, it was physical strength and sporting prowess.
This is why, although sometimes stirred by the sentimentality of our family meetings, I always hated the homestead drawing room. It was a shrine to blessed people, a testament to physical prowess and virility, neither of which I possess.
Look at all the photos on the walls — Grandfather as teenage sports champion in boxing, wrestling, track and field, javelin, discus; as representative team member of rugby, hockey, swimming, sprints and even playing polo with the Pakeha at the showgrounds. He is a stunning sight, his physique scarcely fitting into his clothes. He has the wide open smile of a careless youth with the entire world at his feet.
Now look at the photo of Grandfather with his parents. They are short and stunted, unlike their god of a son. See? He was born that way.
And look at all the silver trophies and shields. Not all of them have been won by Grandfather, yet he so inculcated his sons and daughters with the drive for physical and sporting excellence that, as they grew, they began winning prizes for him. That too is part of his physical triumph. His physical achievement lives on in us.
Did I say us? In this holy of holies, it is strength rather than intelligence which is worshipped. You will find no trophies of mine here, though there may be a couple of certificates for being third in class stuck away in a drawer. This room makes it clear: I am no use whatsoever to Grandfather.