Cousins

by Patricia Grace

  You watched as Keita stripped the blades of flax and began making a basket. And when it was finished you watched her put the wrapped woodchips into it, along with our brother’s blanket, and hang it in a tree. But where was the basket, sweet-smelling and green, to take our blanket to the ground? It had been newspaper only for you and me.

  It was quiet after that. You went to sit with Makareta by the fire, hungry. There was meat and watercress cooking but everyone was waiting.

  A long time later you heard Dadda singing and wanted to run and meet him but you weren’t allowed. Everyone stayed by the fire while Wi went down the bank carrying a lamp, and not long afterwards he returned with Dadda. You, Manny and Chum left the fireplace and went to Dadda, holding a leg, a coat, a hand. There was noise and crying again.

  He took the baby from Mama and began unwrapping it, our grandmother Keita holding the light down low. Baby had his nice clothes on by then. ‘Little brother,’ our mother said in a tired way. (No one had said that of me.) ‘Keep it, Mama,’ Manny said.

  ‘He’s dead.’

  ‘Us hold?’ So you each had a turn at holding the brother, who was real but didn’t move, real but made no sound, his face smaller than a hand. If there was a time for Kui to mention me, that could have been the time, but perhaps she had forgotten me by then.

  You went out to wash and have kai, and later, when you went back inside, Mama was asleep with the baby beside her. Kui and Keita were seated on boxes on either side of the bed and their thoughts had gone back behind their eyes.

  It was just daylight when you woke. Dadda was out in the yard nailing a box. The fires were still going and people were still there with their blankets. Once the box was finished everyone came into the house while Dadda put our brother in it.

  While our father and some of the others were away at the urupa Kui had to wrap Mama in cloths and tie her titties up. Stare, stare, Missy. You liked pretty Kui with her old face, big hairy spot by her nose, long skinny arms. She had white plaits with two of Makareta’s ribbons on them and wore a black dress that nearly touched the floor. Her feet were long and wide and she had yellow bumpy toenails. Had to bend her head down to get in the door. ‘What you got a big spot by your nose, Kui?’ you asked, Miss Nohi.

  ‘My brother put it there,’ she said. ‘Swapped it from his chin onto his finger, then onto my face, singing the wart-swapping song. He tried to put it on my nose but I moved my head.’

  ‘Should put it back on him, Kui.’

  ‘It only came there years and years later. My brother had gone to war by then,’ she said.

  When you heard Dadda, Wi and the others coming back along the track Kui went out to call them. Keita and our mother followed and Mama was saying, ‘Tell them put the shovel away, Kui. Don’t let me see the shovel.’

  They’d named our brother and buried him by our named sister, in the place where babies go. Mama was sick with milk and bleeding, and it was two weeks after our birthday that you finally got to school.

  When the older children went to their desks to write on their slates, Miss Jamieson snapped a piece of green chalk in half and gave a piece to Billyboy and a piece to you, sending you to draw on the boards. You made a circle with two eyes, and from it drew two long legs. You were pleased with that, made another and another until there was a family, and a baby in a box. Even though you didn’t know it, I think one of the smudges you accidently made could’ve been the me that is rubbed into you. Behind you, Miss Jamieson walked up and down saying, ‘Sit up straight, feet together, “four arms” on the desk, don’t write with your nose.’ You looked round every now and again wondering what it was about. There was a rolled-in-a-ball sock duster that had a loop of ribbon sewn on it, which hung by the board on a nail.

  After lunch you all stood by the basins, where you had to dip a finger into a saucer of salt and rub round and round and up and down on your teeth to get them clean. You had to spit and wash your mouths, being careful not to waste water. I would’ve had teeth, beginning to loosen and wobble like yours. The older kids had toothbrushes and were spoken to for flicking at each other.

  In the teacher’s book was a boy with magic beans. He had a hat and a jacket, long pants and flash boots, and when his mother threw the beans out of the window a beanstalk grew to the sky. You thought of having boots and clothes like that, beans like that, climbing to the sky where there might be a chook with golden eggs. But there could be a giant up there as well, you thought, in big boots, fee-fumming and chasing.

  After the teacher had put the book away you all sang Swing low sweet chariot, Comin’ for to carry me home. There was a stove in the room but no wood, and you wondered where Miss Jamieson cooked her kai; no bed and you wondered where she slept. You wanted a mimi but couldn’t remember the words.

  ‘Bigger than trees?’ you asked Makareta on the way home.

  ‘No giants,’ she said.

  ‘Where they are?’

  ‘In the giant country I suppose.’

  The track narrowed and Makareta let go your hand walking ahead of you. You followed close behind, close behind, reaching, touching. ‘Where it is, the giant country?’

  ‘Nowhere.’ She stopped where the tracks joined and sent you off home through the short cut. ‘Wait for you tomorrow,’ she said. Off you went, running running, through the giant trees, Hei Ha Hei, like Maui scooting from fire that the angry tipuna had sent to chase him. Hi Ha, Missy!

  Mama was burning a needle in the fire and Chummy was starting to yell. Piece of white cotton hanging from the needle from when Mama sewed your dress.

  ‘There’s a kid with magic seeds,’ you said.

  ‘There’s a kid with dirty clothes,’ Mama said, ‘and a rip in her sleeve.’ True, Missy, look. Covered in green chalk, tear in your blouse from scatting too fast through the trees, mud marks from the morning when you’d sat yourself down on the track. ‘Climbed up to the sky,’ you said.

  ‘No school for you if you get your things dirty and torn. Needn’t think we got plenty of water to wash your dirty clothes.’

  Mama held Chummy down, our brother squawking worse than a stolen hen, opened up his foot with the needle and began pressing the poison out. ‘Get me kawakawa Manny. Missy, get a bowl.’

  ‘And teacher got chalk for me and Billyboy,’ you said, returning with the bowl.

  Mama bathed the foot, covered it with kawakawa and tied it with a rag. ‘Walk on your heel, like this on your heel,’ our mother said, showing Chummy what to do. You wished you had a sore too, wrapped in warm leaves and a rag, walking on your heel. ‘Which Billyboy?’ she asked.

  ‘Henrietta’s,’ Manny said. ‘Five, like Missy.’

  Our mother sat on a box, put tobacco on a tishy paper, licked, rolled, nipping the dangles from each end, lighting from between the teeth of the stove.

  ‘And a song,’ you said.

  ‘I looked over Jordan and what did I see?’ Manny sang, and you laughed because Mama knew the teacher’s song and joined in:

  Comin’ for to carry me home,

  A band of angels comin’ after me,

  Comin’ for to carry me home.

  And our father knew it too. You ran along beside him carrying the tin. I would’ve raced you for it, snatched it, looped my fingers through the little wire handle and carried it home. Dadda put his hands out to the trees and sang

  If you get there before I do,

  Comin’ for to carry me home,

  Tell all my friends I’m comin’ too,

  Comin’ for to carry me home.

  You followed him up the bank to the house. ‘A desk, a blackboard, chalk,’ you said. ‘A chair, a book, nice dress, high heels.’

  ‘Red mouth too?’ our father asked, bending over laughing by the fire. ‘Like Wi’s dog been worrying sheep?’ Dadda made you wild.

  That was your first day. School was for you, you thought as you went out and rubbed and rinsed your clothes, hung them on the line and poled them up high. Later in the dark you unpegged them a
nd ran from the sky giants, the talking animals, the dark, the ghosters. Our mother put the clothes on a box by the fire so they’d be properly dry by morning.

  Thirty-three

  One who lives in the moon

  Controls the blood’s flow.

  School was for you but there was always something to keep you away — your clothes, your hair, getting water, helping Mama, raincoat.

  At school you’d found out that there were things you were supposed to have. A raincoat was one of them. Look at you, running along the tracks to school on wet days in a sugar bag, one corner of it tucked to the other to make a hood. See, throwing it into the bushes before you go in the gate because it’s not what you’re supposed to have.

  A bed like the one in the reading book, a pillow, a tablecloth, a pencil for a note from your mother, a toothbrush each, an apple, toast, a glass of milk.

  Supposed to have right answers too, good reasons, as Miss Jamieson said when she asked where you’d been for two weeks, a month, two days.

  Reasons like — sick, burnt, toes cut off. But it was Jacko who had chopped off a toe and worn a big bandage to school for the teachers to see. It was Tama who had a shiny neck, a burnt off ear, a scarry arm. And it was Tati who had gone to hospital and stayed there for almost a year.

  Also there were some things not allowed, especially to do with kai. Big kids waited by you in the shelter shed at playtime to see if you drank all your malt milk — wanting to ask for it, but they weren’t allowed to ask. Teachers became angry if you asked for milk or kai, or if you gave your kai to anyone. But at home if you kept kai to yourself you got a good hiding. There were words not allowed too — kai, taringa, piss, poaka, bugger.

  And lies. Why have you been away? Where have you been? Helping Mama. Was it lies?

  About little sister Keita, called Bubba. The tuakana and teina must all be told about and remembered otherwise how can I be counted?

  ‘You’re stopping home, Missy, that’s that,’ our mother said, but you didn’t know why. There was water in the tank and Mama wasn’t sick, hadn’t been sick for a long time. It wasn’t raining, you had clean clothes for school and there was nothing walking in your hair. Then a thought came to you as you watched our mother pick up the water tin, stop and lean by the door. ‘Getting another dead baby?’ you asked.

  ‘Getting a sore ear if you don’t clear up and get the dishes done,’ she said going out with the tin. Manny was pulling wood across the yard.

  When Mama came back in you looked to see what mood she was in but it was difficult to tell. She was sweating and hurrying. ‘After that go and get Kui,’ she said. So it was right, you thought. Mama was getting another dead baby. ‘Don’t play, Missy,’ she said as she went out frowning.

  You speared a piece of soap with a fork, swished it in the water and started washing the plates. You’d nearly finished when Mama came in again, wet from washing clothes. Sweating. ‘Get her now,’ she said. Her hair was wild and she was trying to brush it back with her soapy arm. Her dress was torn but she had a pin holding it across her stomach. She stood in the doorway, bigger than the door.

  Kui Hinemate cut the loaf, gave half to you to carry, and you followed her across the paddocks and up the rise to the track. Then you walked together towards the house, where you thought you might see Mama with her baby.

  No. Mama was at the line hanging the clothes and Kui went inside, put the bread on the shelf and began stoking the fire. You thought the bread might stay there until Dadda came home crying. Manny had started chopping, standing on a branch, cutting, cutting, tossing cut pieces on to the pile.

  ‘Take these out for your mama,’ Kui said, giving you a blanket and picking up towels. So you went out and helped Kui to spread the blanket in a shady place past the clothesline. But Mama didn’t sit. Instead she walked. Kui lay down on the blanket. ‘Look after our fire, little Maleme,’ she said with her eyes closed. ‘Make Mama a cup of tea. Get bread for you and your brother.’

  Hi ha!

  ‘Manny,’ you called as you returned to the house. ‘We’re having bread,’ and he put the axe down and went running to get butter and syrup from the outside safe.

  When you’d eaten the bread you made tea, and you and Manny went out carrying cups in one hand, bread in the other. Mama was crouching on the blanket looking down and Kui was getting something from her, talking, then holding it up. Mama’s dead baby. You hurried, slopping and spilling, past the dripping washing.

  Kui had it by the feet and its mouth was opening and shutting, screaming. Ugly. Red, ugly face, dribbles, arms that moved, tight hands. You dropped the bread and tea, turned and ran. Ahead of you Manny was jumping down the bank, throwing the cup onto the wood heap, chucking the bread. You could hear Kui Hinemate laughing.

  In the house the two of you sat against the wall holding on to each other. ‘Silly,’ Mama called. ‘Come and see. Little sister, come and see.’

  ‘A baby, not dead,’ Manny said, jumping up, egg-eyed, and you went out with him to where Kui was giving the baby to Mama.

  When our father came home you all ran to meet him, Manny ahead because he’d been born feet first. Then Dadda went running home fast on his short legs and you all crowded round as he picked up the bubba who could move her head and twist her mouth, who had to have a nappy on her bum, a bandage on her puku, a dress and blanket to keep her warm.

  After Dadda had put the baby down, he took his rabbit gun from the corner and stood on a box to get the bullets from the ledge.

  Sometimes you Manny and Chum went with him just as it was getting dark and you’d sit on the hillside as the rabbits came out to feed. Dadda would lift the gun carefully and look along it while you sat without breathing. The shot would zing out and you’d hear the dull knock of it hitting, watch the white leap and drop of the rabbit and the white-flashing run of the others, zigging and zagging away.

  You’d run, wanting to be the one to pick up the dead-eyes rabbit with its twitching legs and ears, to be the one to carry it by its warm back feet, but it was always Manny who was there first. After a while, as you waited, the other rabbits would come dawdling back, nibbling, twisting their ears.

  At home Dadda would hang the rabbits upside down in the tree while he sharpened his knife. He’d cut quickly round the feet, slit down the legs then pull the skin down, cut the neck and pull the head and skin away. Headless, skinless, pink rabbit with lumpy, dark blood where the neck had been chopped. You would look for the red hole in the head behind the big eye, talking about the bullet and the blood.

  Dadda leaned by the lamp to put the bullet in, then went outside and shot up in the air so that everyone would know the new baby, not dead, had been born.

  And that made seven.

  Thirty-four

  Red earth woman

  Your children are crying.

  There were two coming along the road a long way off. One was our mother, one was the cousin. Slowly. They had a bag.

  ‘Shush, Bubba, Mama coming,’ you said trying to stop our sister’s grizzling, ‘Chumchum, Mama coming, Manny, Manny,’ you called. Chummy came running but Manny had gone. There was mimi down Bubba’s legs and the dust had stuck to it. Her dress was wet and she had a mucky face, sticky hair and a bleeding sore on the back of her head. You tried brushing her down.

  You watched Mama get under the fence wires and hold them apart so that the cousin could get through with her bag. For a while the two went out of sight, then you saw them coming across the paddock, and as they came towards you up the bank you heard their voices and the sound of manuka swishing, and you and Chumchum grabbed Bubba by the arms and ran with her, hurrying to the tankstand to hide from that new voice, that cousin. Our mother called from the yard but you didn’t answer, and when Bubba started grizzling again you told her to shush, shut up.

  When Mama and the cousin went inside you came out from under the tankstand and crept along the side of the house until you found a hole in the wall. You put your eye to it. ‘Uglee,’ you s
aid, moving back so that Chummy could see. He eyed in through the hole then put his mouth to it. ‘Uglee,’ he whispered, ‘uglee, uglee.’ After a while our angry mother called to you to come inside to do this, do that.

  ‘Only me been looking after Bubba,’ you said as you went in. ‘Bubba done mimi, Bubba done tutae.’ Then you had to run out to get the washing off the line because Mama was stamping. After that you had to take Bubba’s nappy, running with it to the dunny, where you shook it over the hole until the lumps loosened and dropped, back again to put it in the bucket under the tankstand. ‘In trouble, you,’ you called to Manny who was coming along the side of the house.

  ‘Got tuna,’ he said, which meant he wouldn’t be in trouble at all, bloody bugger.

  ‘Good, good boy,’ you heard our mother say.

  Then Mama and the cousin came out. Mama pointed the way to the dunny and the girl walked along the track, walked silly.

  ‘Mama, Mama, Manny never look after Bubba, only me.’ Sore-face Missy.

  ‘I heard you getting smart to your cousin,’ Mama said.

  ‘Run away and played.’

  But Mama just waited by the path for our cousin and told you to show her where to wash, which bowl, which water to use. So you showed her the basin, water, soap, towel, pointing there, there, there, there. Grizzle-guts. You watched our cousin’s face redden, watched her slow eyes looking at this and that and her slow head moving this way, that way. Wondered if she’d had a pie and a raspberry drink on the train.

  And later, when our mother dished out the eel and potato, you still had the hump, throwing your eyes round to see if she gave Manny and Chum more than she’d given you. The cousin had a big lot and didn’t know how to eat properly. ‘Maluna, I love my silver belly tuna,’ our father sang about the eel.

  After tea you got into bed crying and calling for Bubba, not wanting the cousin in your bed. Also you knew that our mother didn’t like you. Only Manny and Chumchum had been allowed out in the dark playing ghosts instead of getting the wood in. Only Manny and Chum had been allowed to get changed by the fire. Bubba was in Mama’s bed, sucky-noise Bubba. Bubba, cuddle and warm. You moved hard against the wall as our cousin got into bed beside you.