Huia Short Stories 9

by Anahera Gildea

  His father stops outside the new office building, which is separated from the factory by a car park. The same architect who designed their house has imitated the factory roof here, with a staggering of triangular roof shapes set on top of a concrete block base. Dwarf conifers in shades of green and yellow creep across the ground.

  ‘I’m in the office till lunchtime,’ his father says. ‘What do you want to do?’

  ‘I’ll wander around.’

  ‘Don’t get in the way,’ his father says, taking off his gloves.

  He climbs the metal staircase bolted to the side of the factory. Halfway up he stops, and gripping the handrails tightly he swings his body from side to side. The staircase sways, and he matches its rhythm until he can hear the fixings creaking.

  ‘Hey you,’ a voice calls out from below.

  Without looking down he bounds up the stairs and opens the fire door, which is the escape route from the Offal Department.

  Apart from the cattle slaughtering, he likes watching the process of brains being removed from sheep’s heads best of all, and he hopes the foreman of the day is his Uncle Mo, who lets him watch, and not Toby Smith, who is sneering and only lets him look through the doors, which are thick plastic panels that distort everything inside.

  His Uncle Mo is sitting behind a desk, pencil in hand, hunched over a large book, and writing numbers down a page. His Uncle Mo is his grandmother’s brother; the grandmother he only knows from photographs and stories, who died in childbirth when she was thirty-three.

  He knocks on the open door. ‘Hello, Uncle Mo,’ he says.

  ‘Ah, young Callum,’ Uncle Mo says, looking up.

  ‘How are you today?’

  ‘I’m grand, thanks son. How’s GT?’

  GT is his grandfather. All his grandmother’s side of the family, and most people, call his grandfather GT. George Thomas. They’re his Christian names.

  ‘He’s OK. Mummy let me see him yesterday. We’re not meant to be talking to him.’

  The chair creaks as Uncle Mo leans back and folds his hands behind his head. Under a crisp white coat he’s wearing a black wool singlet. ‘What’s that about?’ he asks.

  ‘It’s about the merger with Selbys.’

  ‘Ah, the merger. Causing a bit of trouble, eh?’

  ‘Daddy and Granddad aren’t talking because of it.’

  ‘That father of yours,’ Uncle Mo mutters, turning his head away.

  ‘Daddy says Granddad is old fashioned and doesn’t like change.’

  His Uncle Mo unclasps his hands and rests them on his thighs. ‘Your grandfather is a great man,’ he says gravely. ‘He was a great soldier, and the best boss a man could have. Got a lot of mana everywhere, has your grandfather.’

  ‘Do you know how Ralph died?’

  ‘What?’

  ‘Granddad’s friend Ralph from the war. Do you know how he died?’

  ‘I know who you mean. Ralph Gibson. He died at the Somme.’

  ‘But do you know how he was killed?’

  ‘It’s not important how he died.’

  ‘That’s what Daddy said,’ he says, realising it must be an adult thing not to care about how death happens. When he had asked his grandfather how Ralph died, his grandfather had shaken his head, and looked at him with such sadness, he knew to never ask again. And he knows his Uncle Mo won’t tell him.

  ‘Can I watch the brains?’ he asks.

  ‘You know the way,’ replies Uncle Mo, who is relieved he doesn’t have to talk about Ralph Gibson’s brutal end. ‘And tell GT I’ll pop round next Friday after work.’

  He walks along a corridor. All surfaces are concrete and glistening ash grey from the water blasting of the cleaning gang. Drains on either side carry bits of animals in swiftly flowing water stained rust red. Metal grates cover the drains at the entrances to the rendering rooms. Brains are processed farthest down the corridor in a separate room. Stomachs are nearest, and as he passes, he sees through wedged open doors figures dressed all in white, boots to hats, trimming kidneys and livers, hearts and sweetbreads. Others wrap and pack.

  Heads look up when he pushes through the thick plastic flaps into the brains processing room. Stumpy Burrows yells out, ‘Woop, woop, woop,’ and flicks a blob of fat that lands at his feet with a soft thud. He waves to Stumpy, who holds up his hand with the two fingers missing. They were chopped off by the skull-cutter in the first week the machines were commissioned. His father said that Stumpy probably did it deliberately to get the compensation, but he can’t believe Stumpy would be so stupid. Stumpy flicks his head toward the alcove where he’s allowed to stand and watch the sheep’s heads spilling into a revolving metal cylinder and tumbling through a shower of water before plopping onto a conveyor belt running the length of the windowless room. Fluorescent strips hanging from the ceiling flood the room with unforgiving light.

  He watches as Stumpy grabs a head and places it in a V-shaped bracket, lining it up for a mechanical cleaver to slice through the skull, revealing the steaming grey brain. Before another man lifts the cleavered head aside, scoops out the brain with a fork and flicks it into a tray, Stumpy has picked up another head.

  There are five cleaver machines whirring and clunking and two men at each machine. They yell above the noise. He can hear that ‘fuck’ is their favourite word.

  The trays fill quickly, and are taken away to another room, where each brain is separately wrapped in cellophane and packed in boxes of six for export to France. The boxes are labelled Cerveaux d’Agneaux, and his father has told him they are value-added product: the future now that Britain seems sure to join the EEC. Government officials had come from France to approve Gow Meat Processors’ new offal processing plant, which, along with the office block, had ballooned way over budget and left the company burdened with debt.

  He knows a lot about the Works. Most of his information comes from listening to his father and mother talking at the dinner table, but he knows some things his father doesn’t know, like Stumpy filling plastic bags with brains and hiding them in his gumboots before he goes out for a smoke. Stumpy winks as he swings open the doors. He follows him.

  ‘How’s GT these days? He hasn’t been up for a while,’ Stumpy says. He pulls out a pouch and starts rolling a cigarette.

  ‘He gets puffed quickly.’

  ‘Be the gas.’

  ‘From the war?’

  ‘Yeah.’

  ‘Do you know about Granddad’s friend Ralph Gibson who got killed at the Somme?’

  ‘Isn’t he the one who killed himself?’

  ‘Killed himself?’

  ‘I might be wrong. Anyways, best not upsetting people talking about that stuff.’

  Stumpy’s related to him too. Second cousins, he thinks. Stumpy’s mother, his Aunty Joy, is the daughter of the sister of his grandmother. Something like that.

  ‘Want one?’ Stumpy says, offering him the pouch.

  ‘Nah,’ he says, ‘Makes me cough. Do you know who’s on cattle today?’

  ‘The slaughterman?’

  ‘Yeah.’

  ‘I think it’s Tama. You like watching Tama?’

  He feels his face flush, and looks away.

  Stumpy softly punches his arm. ‘Got a crush on Tama, eh?’

  ‘Course not,’ he says, as he’s reminded of Michael Madden and his humiliation at school the day before.

  ‘Off you go then. I need the toilet.’

  He looks down at Stumpy’s gumboots, and keeps his eyes there as he says, ‘Tama’s a good slaughterman, that’s all.’

  ‘Of course, you’re right,’ Stumpy says as he walks awkwardly away. ‘See ya later, and say hello to GT for me.’

  New cattle slaughter yards were the first improvements his father made when he became general manager of the Works in 1962.

  The cattle are held tightly packed in pens before being forced, one by one, up a narrow race. He flinches with the beasts as men standing on gangplanks stab at them with electric rods. They try to
turn around and they are shocked. They try to back up. They are shocked. They have nowhere else to go but forward, and he feels their fear rising through his body as he walks along the gangplank above. He moves quickly, and when he reaches the end of the line, he sits on top of the fencing rail, and he watches. A black Angus is next. He sees its eyes are rolled back, looking like black half-moons. Snorts of breath from flaring nostrils blow channels in the foam frothing from its mouth. Behind its rump a gate is lowered. Over its head a metal brace is fitted. Above stands Tama, who looks at him, and cocks his head. His face is blank. He scratches the crest of the caged Angus and places the muzzle of the gun against the skull. He pulls the trigger and looks up. His face is expressionless, but a knotty blue vein on his neck is thick with blood.

  The collapsing beast is chained by one leg, and as it slumps, the chain tightens and pulls the twitching body up in the air until it’s suspended above the ground. A man dressed head to toe in white plastic steps forward and runs his knife down the arching throat. He steps back as a red torrent floods from the gash. The floor is contoured, and the river of blood soon finds its way to a drain. Tama is standing above the next cattle beast. The Angus is being moved up the chain. The skinners will do their job in three minutes. He looks back to Tama, who returns his glance with a frozen glare.

  ‘Are we related to Tama Edwards?’

  His father is pulling on his driving gloves. ‘No. Why do you ask?’

  ‘How do you know we’re not?’

  ‘I know because our side came from Taranaki. The Edwardses are from Wairoa.’

  ‘But I thought Grandma Gow was born in Hastings.’

  ‘She was. I’ve told you this. Her. She. Her father, my grandfather, came from Taranaki.’

  ‘And he was Māori?’

  ‘He was half Māori. I’ve told you this before.’

  ‘How much does that make me?’

  ‘Not much,’ his father says. ‘I’m an eighth, which makes you a sixteenth. Did Tama say something to you?’

  ‘Tama doesn’t talk.’

  ‘So why are you asking?’

  ‘I dunno. It’s just that the Māori people really like Granddad. And he’s not Māori, is he?’

  His father stabs his foot at the accelerator pedal, and the Daimler surges forward, pressing him back into his seat. ‘Wind up that window,’ he says, lighting a cigarette, and he doesn’t talk again until they reach the house, when he says, ‘After lunch you can get on to the lawns. I want them all done. With the catcher.’

  ‘Yes, Daddy,’ he says.

  ‘And the sitter’s coming at five. I want you scrubbed up by the time she arrives.’

  ‘Yes, Daddy.’ He knows his father’s mood, and will be very careful not to give him an excuse to smack him.

  Gobblestone Park

  Gordon Te Araroa-Ham

  Wilson breathes in the frozen air; it burns his lungs, and he exhales puffs of steam. It’s like smoking a cigarette, he thinks, and smiles to himself. He pulls an imaginary smoke out and lights it, extending his fingers, trying to act like a lady. He might want to be a lady but he’s not beyond stomping in frozen puddles and getting his gumboots wet and dirty on frosty mornings. He raises a foot above the ice; it hovers for a moment before he brings it smashing down. In his fanciful mind, instead of his gumboot, a stiletto falls, piercing the ice and scattering shards across the footpath. They turn into diamonds and sparkle in the sun.

  A right-hand turn onto Mōhio Street and Wilson is outside Bella’s house. Bella heaves the window up and shoves aside the filthy curtains, which dangle like rotten teeth in an ageing mouth. She hops on the ledge, exposing her genitals to Wilson and sticking two fingers in the air. ‘Up ya, ya ugly poof! Up ya! Up ya! Up ya!’ Hips swishing from side to side and groin thrust forward. Suddenly she hops in the air, spins around and gives him a brown-eye. Yesterday’s neglected ponytails bounce about in two unkempt bunches.

  Without a falter Wilson retorts, ‘Pull your dirty pants up, you stinky Bella – I can see your ugly pee-hole.’ He raises his nose into the air, feigning disapproval, and continues on towards school. ‘You’re gonna be late,’ Wilson yells as he minces to the end of the road.

  ***

  The whānau is gathered at the gates of the marae. A sinking sun rests upon the distant hills. Just inside the gates is an old white church with a red roof. It is surrounded by headstones. Maria will be buried there too. Wilson blows into his hands to warm them. A walnut tree looms above the church, alone and leafless, the remnants of its autumn harvest scattered on the ground. Battered shells emptied by little fingers.

  Wai feels nervous; she hasn’t been on a marae since she was a boy. ‘Haere mai rā!’ an old woman is calling to them, her karanga sending chills down Wai’s spine. They enter the gates, carrying Maria towards the wharepuni. A view of the mountains takes Wai’s breath. Three rocked gods, cloaked in snow, towering in the distance. The home crowd stands in front of a cluster of buildings. The wharepuni is in the centre. Its red ochre carvings are faded with time.

  Kui Herena stands to the fore, wailing her karanga to the approaching family, calling them forward.

  ‘Come back to your sacred home,’ she calls to Maria. ‘Come! to us in spirit – in your waka, to your people; come back with the spirits of your ancestors,’ and the ancient voice trails off. A reply rings back.

  Kui Herena is Maria’s great-aunt: sister of her grandmother. As old, almost, as the shacks that surround her. Her age is marked by the moko chiselled deep into her chin, a lizard slithering from her mouth.

  The old lady starts up again. This time her karanga tells a story, whispered and cried as it passes over the lizard’s back. Her throat wobbles with the strain of it and the voice breaks again, trailing off with a chanted cry. She flicks snot onto the ground with her hand.

  The women wear black dresses, and wild clematis is wreathed in their hair. Herena shakes a piece of greenery in her hand.

  Wilson feels Maria close by. He turns, half expecting to see her standing there. She is still in her coffin though. It is Wai, not Maria, who stands behind him. He graces her with a smile, which she returns. He winks.

  God, that boy is beautiful, Wai thinks. She wipes her eyes. He steps back from his father to take her hand.

  Dion releases his hand and he thinks about his agreement with Maria; that she would not tell Wilson anything about the circumstance of his birth. Now can he trust Wai to do the same? How much does she know, anyway?

  His attention is drawn back to the tangi as the group comes to a halt in front of the wharepuni.

  Bella is standing with the home crowd. She can’t contain herself – it looks more fun on the other side. She runs across the lawn to join Wilson. Her mother grasps at her but is too slow; she disappears.

  Wilson snuggles close to Bella. ‘Bell!’ he says. ‘This is Wai.’ He indicates in Wai’s direction with a flick of his head. ‘She’s Maria’s best friend and she’s really a man,’ he yells over the sound of grief.

  Bella stares at Wai with wide eyes. Reen and Dion stiffen; they look at each other but neither of them moves. By now everyone knows what Wai is – there have been sniggers and snide remarks, mostly behind her back. Dion and Reen aren’t bothered by her lifestyle as long as she keeps it to herself.

  ‘A man? In a dress? Wow!’ Bella’s eyes glow. She stops and turns to stare at Wai. A woman bumps into her, nearly tripping over and bringing the progression to a halt.

  That’s it! Dion has had enough, and he makes a move towards them, but to his surprise Reen beats him to it. She pokes the two children in the back and leans down close. ‘Keep your voices down, you two!’

  Yeah, yeah, Bella thinks, saying to Wilson, ‘We should dress up one day too.’ They exchange a mischievous glance.

  Whack! Whack! A firm smack across the bum for both of them. Dion smiles; Reen has never hit Wilson in her life before now and neither has he. He feels a strange sense of satisfaction as Wilson’s eyes mist over. Bella just mout
hes foul words, an f and a b, though luckily for Bella, Reen doesn’t see.

  Wai moves out of the way towards the front of the group but Lorinda grabs her top and pulls her back. ‘Women first, that’s our kawa.’ Her mouth a slit on an otherwise blank page. ‘You know the rules, men go to the back.’

  Elaine hears her and starts to laugh. A deep laugh that makes her tits wobble. She tells Kereama, who doesn’t think it’s funny, but their cousin Josie does, and she starts to laugh too. It seems to Wai that the whole lot are laughing at her.

  Wai turns as red as a sunburnt Māori. She fidgets with her dress and turns away from them, suffocating the urge to lash out, and then is saved by Reen, who comes over and takes her by the arm, shooting Lorinda and the others a disgusted look.

  ‘God, I want this to be over,’ Reen whispers to Dion when she comes back to him.

  A young woman appears from the shadows of the house with beautifully woven whāriki mats, which she places on the grass. Maria is lowered onto them. Her mother and sisters surround the coffin, sinking to their knees. They cry in unison. The sound is scary now, and it builds and spreads through the people like fire. Before long the marae is awash with spirits and ghostly sounds as the living and dead converge on the same ground. For five long minutes they kneel, poised in their grief. Mass hysteria takes hold, and it seems that everyone has someone to grieve for. The whole crowd is crying now, even those who thought little or nothing of Maria.

  Wilson stays with the women and lowers his head, his skin tight on his body. The men move back, out of the way, and take a seat beneath a flag that was raised just before they arrived.