‘But Aunty Gloria seems to be worried that there is more to it than that. I feel that she is trying to warn me. She seems to be concerned about things that I would’ve thought forgotten long ago — to do with a promise between our family and the Te Waru family, of an arranged marriage.
‘Of course our relatives up north have land adjoining Keita’s. I can understand how the land could be joined, could be opened up and used if there was a marriage. Otherwise I guess not one family or the other will put a foot on it. Aunty Gloria said (more than once in her letter) that there are two things I have to remember about Keita. One is that she has plans for all of us, and the other is that if we don’t fit in with her plan we won’t be forgiven. She pleaded with me that if ever I went away from home I would always return. She said that what she and Anihera didn’t understand at first was that they both had a right. Aunty Anihera belonged there just like any of us, just like Keita, and Aunty Gloria herself belongs there, just like any of us, just like Keita. It’s not up to Keita to send anyone away. What do you think, my mother? I don’t believe that Keita would do anything behind my back because I’ve always been part of everything my grand-parents and elders have ever done. Marriage? I’ve no thought of it, no thought at all.
‘Anyway I wrote to Keita asking about the visits up north and had a reply saying that arrangements were being made for my twentieth birthday celebration. It’s going to be a big affair with relatives coming from all over the country. It’s not what I want, but I suppose I’ll have to have it now that arrangements have begun and promises have been made (of gifts of pork, mutton kumara, corn, etc.) I’d rather wait a year and have a twenty-first celebration if I have to have anything.
‘All I want to do at the moment is to get my schooling behind me and go home to be with Kui until she dies. She has to see that I did come back as I said I would. (I suppose the idea of the early birthday party is because of Kui — hoping she’ll still be with us then.) Later on I’ll come and live with you, Mum. I want to continue my education or do some training. There’s no work for me at home and I don’t want to be a woman just walking in and out, useless, among the trees.
‘Keita said in her letter that by the time of my birthday my land will be all fixed up for me. I don’t know what to make of that, but when I go home I’m going to persuade Keita to let Aunty Gloria have her land as well. I think it’s unfair the way Keita treats Aunty Gloria. Everyone at home has a new house except for her.
‘After lights-out at night some of the exam girls put on their dressing gowns and take their papers and books along to the library. In the library they shade the windows so that the light won’t show, and they settle themselves to study until the early hours (if they are not caught, that is). Sometimes I go with them, not so much to study but to finish my letters.
‘I think of the long, white road, where, round the last bend, there is light from the lamp in the window. It is a sharp image, but one from a past time now that the electricity has gone through. If they need me at home they’ll call. The bell, ringing, has a heavy, slow sound.’
So she is prepared, Makareta, for the death of Hinemate. I realise now that all her life she has been prepared for this time as she travelled about with the old ones wherever they went to tangihanga. She has a deep understanding of death as part of our lives, not that that will make her sorrow any less.
Last week I went out and bought a new pink dress, a grey duster coat, a rosy hat and spanky shoes, and was preparing to go to the prizegiving where my daughter would receive the top scholar awards. Now, instead, I prepare to go and say goodbye to the old mother. Makareta will already be on her way. ‘Wake her now,’ I said to Miss Green on the phone in the night. ‘So she can catch the early train.’
Twenty-nine
The old people waited in the meeting house for Makareta, who had gone home to dress for the birthday. Soon the visitors would arrive.
Everyone had been working for many weeks to prepare the marae and meeting house for this special day and now it was all done. Some of the verandah boards of the house had been replaced, straw from old nests had been cleared away from under the eaves. There was new tin covering the gaps in the roof and new paint on the maihi and the amo.
Although the day was fine there had been three days of rain earlier in the week and the men had spread straw thickly over the marae so that it would not be too wet underfoot when the guests arrived.
Inside the house the floor had been scrubbed and the whariki put down. The walls and ledges had been washed and decorated with ponga leaves and the poutokomanawa had been strung with flowers. The ochre-painted face of the ancestress, with its white-painted eyes, red lips, black, curling hair, that looked down from the back wall had been dusted and polished. The feather by her ear had been repainted and in its whiteness it was flamelike, flickering in the dull light. The photographs at either side of her had been taken down and dusted and hung up again.
There was thin sun coming in through the red and blue window. It broke in soft, weakened colours onto the curling edge of the whariki. There was a smell of damp and rot and paint and polish. The old ones gossiped or slept as they waited. The Daughter was surely taking a long time.
The children, playing out in the paddock, ran now and again to the far end of it to where they could see the road, but so far there was no sign of the visitors. Who? They didn’t know who, and the whispering, the secrecy of the old ones had told them they weren’t to ask. They ranged up and down with their manuka hockey sticks chasing an old tennis ball. Their legs were bruised and bleeding but the uncles and aunties, mothers and fathers had been too busy to bother about that.
Earlier they’d helped to wash the potatoes, kumara and pumpkin and to take the husks off the corn. They’d seen the vegetables being stacked with the mutton and pork into the hangi baskets, along with big tins of steam pudding, then watched the baskets as they were put down onto the hissing stones. Once the food was covered with the cloths their uncles had sent the dirt flying off the shovels, heaping it so that no steam would escape.
At the cooking fires a heap of wood had been stacked and some of the big boys were still chopping. Large pots sat on iron rails over the fires and there was a smell of watercress and mutton, and of eels that were smoking, white and dripping against the corrugated iron erected at the back of the fireplace.
Although they’d been chased out of the tent, the children had seen the jellies and trifles, lollies and fruit, the boxes of raspberry, orange and lemon fizz, creaming soda, lemonade, ginger beer and ginger ale. There were pickles and sauces being put into small dishes, bread being sliced and buttered, cakes cut and covered, bowls stacked ready for the hot food. They were hungry but they knew it was a long time before they would eat.
There was beer for the party too, and some of the uncles had started drinking it as they sat in the heat watching the fires, filling jugs from a keg. After a while some of the old ones came out of the house to join them, then the women from the tent came.
Everything was ready and they were all waiting. Even though Makareta was taking her time it didn’t matter because it was all going to happen, at last. Old promises were going to be made good, but it wasn’t to be talked about yet, time enough for that when everything was settled. Perhaps things had gone wrong in the past because people talk too much, so now they didn’t speak of it, not even behind the hand.
But they were impatient to see this girl of theirs. What was keeping her? They wanted to see the new clothes and to watch Keita put the korowai and the greenstone on her. They wanted to see how the pendant would look against the lace blouse. Some said it was white lace, others said it would be cream or a pastel colour. Her hair would be brushed out, yes, and it would come down and over the korowai like another cloak. Makareta was going to change into another dress for the party because she had dresses galore. She had everything. Keita was going to build her a house on her land. If only Hinemate had lived long enough to see it.
Waiting. There’d b
een a lot of hard work, but for now the beer was good. The visitors had better be on time or their hosts might start on another of the kegs that were keeping cool in the creek. Any minute they might send a nephew to ask Wi if they could roll themselves up another barrel, and Wi wouldn’t be able to refuse them.
They had all guessed what was holding the girl up. It was because Polly hadn’t arrived and Makareta would be still hoping.
But why hadn’t Polly come? Perhaps it was because there was something she didn’t agree with. That would be it, because it wasn’t like Polly not to be there. She should’ve been there days ago.
What was there for Polly not to agree with?
Here was the nephew with a new keg, Wi hadn’t refused them. And after a while they thought they could whisper — about the young man being brought down for Makareta. A mokopuna of Te Waru, you don’t say.
Over in the paddock the kids began to call, ‘Kei te haere mai nga pahi, kei te haere mai nga pahi.’ So the buses had been seen coming round the hill, but where was Makareta? The old ones were waiting in the meeting house where the ancient ones looked down from the walls. The feather cloak was ready, folded across Keita’s knee.
Hah, but everything was all right now. They could all see Wi’s car turning in towards the rear of the meeting house. Makareta had arrived just in time.
Thirty
Missy touched the iron to make sure it wasn’t too hot, then began ironing Makareta’s blouse — the tucks, the frills, the ties. No trouble with an electric iron, no smudges to worry about. After that she would iron the party dress.
Bub rubbed Vaseline into the new patent leather shoes, over the tops and around the heels, the little heels — not too high, not too low. The shoes were already shiny but she wanted them shinier still. She was going to tell Makareta to wear her old shoes down to the wharenui so her new ones wouldn’t get muddy. She would be the one to carry the new shoes for her cousin.
Gloria brushed the charcoal wool suit, hung it on the wardrobe door and lay the stockings and underwear out on the bed. Makareta would put on her underwear then they’d brush out her hair. Tonight, after Makareta had changed into her party dress, they could plait her hair up again. Everything was ready.
But Makareta was taking her time. Gloria went out to the washhouse to call her. ‘I’m coming,’ Makareta said. ‘Can Bub make us a cup of tea?’
‘I’ll make it,’ Gloria said. ‘Have a quick cup. Then we have to get your hair done. We can’t take long, Makareta.’
‘Someone’ll come for us if we’re taking too long. If they see the buses coming they’ll send someone over.’
She stepped out of the bath, wrapped a towel around herself, put her feet into a pair of sandals and crossed the yard to the house. As she went through to the bedroom she called, ‘Missy, that dress is for you.’
‘I’ve got a dress for your party, Makareta,’ Missy said, following her cousin to the bedroom. ‘Tonight after we’ve cleaned up I’ll put it on.’
‘It’s not my colour. It’ll suit you — a girl with yellow specks in her eyes and kehu hair. I want you to have it.’
‘I’m too skinny and tall.’
‘I altered it yesterday, took the darts in and let the hem down. See?’
‘Mum …’
‘If your cousin wants to give you a dress, Missy, then you can’t refuse, but we better iron one of your other dresses, Makareta, for the party …’
‘I like my new suit so I think I’ll keep it on. When it’s time for the party I’ll take the jacket off so everyone can see the nice blouse that you’ve been ironing for me. I don’t need two changes in one day, do I? Put it on, Missy, so we can see.’
Gloria made tea while Bub began undoing Makareta’s hair and brushing it down. ‘It fits me, it does,’ Missy said, showing them the dress.
‘I knew it would suit you,’ Makareta said.
‘Like a film star, Miss,’ said Bub.
Just then Manny put his head round the door. ‘There’s a car coming. Looks like a taxi.’
‘That’ll be Polly, Makareta. You should know your mother wouldn’t let you down on your birthday. Put your clothes on quickly now so your mother will be the first to see.’
Makareta put on her blouse and skirt, took her jacket from the hanger and Missy and Bub held her hair while she put it on. ‘My mother’s not coming,’ she said.
‘Of course …’
‘I had a letter …’
‘From Polly? Saying she’s not coming?’
‘Yesterday.’
‘You didn’t tell us. You didn’t say.’
Makareta took the letter from her drawer and gave it to her aunt to read:
‘I am very upset about something I have just found out about. I should have heard about it from you, Makareta. You are my own daughter and yet you kept this important matter from me that I have found out about from a stranger.
‘I was visiting the hospital this afternoon and noticed an old kuia in one of the wards so I went to sit with her for a while. I found out that she was one of the kuia of the Te Waru family, the kuia Tarati. She told me that her people were bringing one of their young men down for an engagement to you. She didn’t say your name, and didn’t know that I was your mother, but as I listened to her talking I realised what she meant.
‘It was wrong of you not to tell me. I’m very hurt about it. I was looking forward to the birthday party, thinking that afterwards, you, my daughter, would come to me at last, even if only for a few years.
‘Kui Tarati said that everything had been arranged. The grandson would be brought down for the engagement, and when he and his people returned home the wedding would be prepared for. She talked about land.
‘Makareta, I’m not saying it’s wrong if it’s what you want. Having someone chosen isn’t a bad thing. Keita, Wi, the old ones, would’ve thought carefully, prepared carefully. You know their ways. But you didn’t tell me. You said you would come to me one day and that there were things that you wanted to do. You have said you have no thought of marriage. I am more disappointed than I can say.
‘I’m too upset to come to your birthday, Makareta. It was a shock to find all this out from a stranger, but I have to forgive you because you are my daughter. The money is for your birthday. I have gifts for you too but my heart is too sad for me to bring them or send them. One day I will give them to you …’
‘Aunty Gloria,’ Makareta said, when her aunt had finished reading, ‘I’m going, the taxi is for me.’
Gloria began to cry, rocking herself from side to side, holding the letter against her chest, ‘No, no, Makareta, you can’t do this. You can’t go, we’ll all be shamed, you can’t.’
Makareta sat down by her aunt. ‘I can’t marry someone, anyone, when I’ve got no thought of it.’
‘Makareta, there’ll be shame on all of us if you go. And if you go you won’t come back. That’s what Kui Hinemate always cried for.’
‘I’ve been thinking of Kui all the time. She’s been talking to me in her own way, and she’s helped me to know that what I’m doing is right.’
‘Makareta,’ Missy said, ‘it says in the letter you’ll be engaged.’ Missy’s eyes were bright and her breath came in excited gasps. ‘Then you’ll have a wedding. It’ll be beautiful …’
‘I have to go.’
‘No, Makareta,’ Gloria said. ‘You have to do what they want. They want to honour you, the two families together. It’s not so bad. That boy has been brought up by his old people and his family won’t let you down.’
‘Makareta, Bub and I’ll be bridesmaids for you, for your wedding.’
‘I can’t marry when there’s nothing in my heart for it, when it’s only my family who can touch me. I have to go.’
‘Just for the engagement, Makareta, there’s no harm. Then if it’s not right, if it doesn’t work out …’
‘If it doesn’t work out we’ll all be shamed anyway.’
‘If you leave now Keita will die.’
&
nbsp; ‘If I’d found out sooner … Aunty Gloria, if you knew you should’ve told me.’
‘I didn’t know, Makareta. I thought there would be talk at your birthday but didn’t know about any engagement … Makareta, the people will arrive soon …’
‘If I’d known sooner I’d have gone sooner, but the letter came just yesterday. At first I couldn’t understand it, because I really believed Keita when she said the celebration was for my birthday. I knew there was something in Keita’s mind, and I thought perhaps I would come back one day, when I was older, when I was ready, to do what they wanted … But right now, I can’t. When I finished reading the letter I was going to go to Keita and beg her to stop it, but it was too late. I knew the people were already on their way. I’ve waited until now to leave so it’ll be too late for anyone to come after me. Soon the buses will arrive.’
‘Just the engagement, Makareta.’
‘If I could …’
Makareta put on her shoes. ‘I’ll come back one day, like you said, Aunty Gloria.’ She picked up a small bag that she had already packed, and as she did so her aunt began to wail and cry, ‘No, Makareta, I’ll be blamed, I’ll be blamed.’
‘Kiss me, my cousins,’ she said to Manny, Missy and Bub. She held each of them to her as they pleaded with her. Then as she turned to say goodbye to Gloria, her aunt brushed her aside and ran out calling to the taxi driver to go away. He started up the engine as Makareta opened the door and stepped in.
MISSY
Thirty-one
Woman with
Obsidian eye
Made us mortal.
On the night we were born our mother woke with hard pain in her back. She’d had pain for most of the day, but because you’d dropped yourself down she felt light and energetic. We heard her singing, didn’t we, as she scalded the milk, made bread, scrubbed the floor and the outhouse, washed the clothes and cleaned the tankstand down. Before dark she brought the clothes in from the line and stacked nappies and gowns, a blanket and towels ready on the rack over the fire.
Cousins Page 15
