Eventually men from the home crowd approach Mihi and her daughters, and they lift Maria right up from between them, jolting the world back into action. This rekindles their crying, but the men ignore them and take Maria regardless and place her on the porch. She is theirs now too.
There is absolute silence as the women arrange themselves on mattresses placed on either side of the coffin. The lid is removed to reveal Maria, dead in all her dark-skinned beauty, and their grief-sound reaches a feverish pitch again. Wilson sits quietly looking at her. His own reflection – framed in lacquered wood.
Koro Jimmy stands with a deceptive spring. He is Herena’s husband: her second husband, a replacement for the one buried by the church. He holds a carved tokotoko in withered hands: working hands. Hands that have milled, gardened and built. Hands that have lost a thumb. The stump moves in circles while he manoeuvres his stick. His lips part only slightly as he speaks the language of his people. He raises the stick for emphasis and stabs it in the air. ‘Tīhe mauri ora,’ he begins. Loose skin hangs from a bone which was once an arm. His bright eyes seem to shine inside darkened sockets – hot coals in a fading fire.
He speaks to Io Matua – God. He speaks to Maria herself, as though she might just jump up and sing for him. ‘Go,’ he tells her. ‘Go to the other side where your father is; go to your ancestors; go to your people.’ Koro Jimmy greets her; he sends her off. He speaks of legends and conquests – battles lost and won. Those who understand the language nod their heads.
Finally he addresses Mihi and her grieving family. ‘Let go,’ he tells them. ‘Flick your snot on the ground like Herena did. The earth hungers for the salt of your tears.’ His oratory feast is over, and Herena gets up to sing for him. A death-chant of loss, regret and sorrow.
Out back, food is being prepared in the kitchen. If the wharepuni is the soul of the marae, the kitchen is the heart. Hours of uncles and aunties cooking up a storm on open fires are about to manifest themselves in a feed. Large blackened pots sit atop metal pipes, flames lashing their sides – there is no electricity on the marae. Uncle Hemi is the main cook. Women prepare, men cook. He stands over the pots like a cauldron wizard, dipping oversized ladles and conjuring up pork and pūhā as if by magic. Greased rings surround his toothless mouth, telltales of a full stomach.
The pōwhiri has ended. Two groups become one as lines merge with touching noses and mingling breath – kanohi ki te kanohi, face to face – and they begin to lift the tapu, the sacredness, that Herena created with her first karanga.
Wai makes her way around the line of smiling people. She reaches Koro Jimmy. He smiles a smile of kindness; bends slightly to touch noses with her. Without thinking she tip-toes and kisses the old man on the nose. That is it, even old Herena can’t help herself: she bursts out laughing with the rest of the marae, and in the end she has to tuck a wrinkled hand between her rickety legs and hobble around the back to piss.
If the ground were to explode into a trillion pieces and land on top of her she would be glad. Wai is so mortified she bursts into tears. She cups her face in her hands. She tries to escape, but Reen has her firmly in her grasp. ‘It’s okay, Wai, you’re not going anywhere!’ Wai eventually pulls herself together as best she can, and the lines get themselves back into order, though not one of the home crowd can resist the urge to say something smart, albeit kind-heartedly, as she makes her way to the end.
The sound of voices and laughing replaces grief, and then somebody calls, ‘Food.’ Everyone shuffles towards the dining room. Clinking of knives and forks, clanking of dishes. Chairs scraping on the bare wooden floor of the wharekai. Suddenly there is the atmosphere of a party as the sun goes down.
Wai enters a dining room lit by Tilley lamps that hang from the ceiling. The air is heavy and damp inside; hot in contrast to the still cold outside. The smell of food accosts her. The aromas of fresh hot food and half-cooked food, and the slightly stale smell of old fat on bare wooden boards, mingled with burning kerosine, permeate the place.
Wai fills a plate with pūhā boil-up and takes a seat. The room fills with people. Chatter and laughter are deafening, but there is a ring of silence around her. She imagines that every laugh is about her. But in reality the people have already moved on, and are talking about other things. People dribble into the dining room, but nobody sits with Wai. To simply flee would be such a blessing, but her body won’t move – poisoned into inaction by a familiar tension. A quick glance tells her that nobody seems to be looking in her direction, despite her feeling that they are, but then she spots Lorinda smiling an evil smile across the room. Oh, how Wai would love to smash that smile from her ugly face.
Reen and Wilson enter the dining room. Wai pretends to be absorbed by her food, examining it as though it is some exotic green from Asia instead of plain old pūhā plucked from the roadside. Reen and Wilson join her. Wilson’s eyes are smiling at her but he doesn’t make a sound. He saw her kiss the koroua on the nose.
‘I’m sorry about Lorinda,’ Reen said. ‘She can be so nasty.’ She glances at Wilson and adds, ‘But she can also be the most caring person when she wants to be. I think she is jealous of you. Maria and her were very close. You should see her with Wilson: she loves him so much. Gentle! You wouldn’t believe it. Isn’t she dear?’
Wilson ignores her.
Reen perseveres. ‘But she’s such a grump with other kids. I don’t understand her sometimes, Wai. Wai? Are you OK dear?’
‘Oh! Yeah, I’m fine,’ Wai lies. She almost vomited with relief when they joined her, but now her mind can’t keep up with Reen.
Wai watches Reen eat like a Pākehā, just picking at her food, interspersing the process with almost non-stop chatter. Delicate mouthfuls expertly manoeuvred onto the fork. Reen turns it into something flash the way she eats. Wai looks at her own fingers covered in grease and swallows her gob-full of food. The crowd of people stuff themselves. Open-mouthed laughter, revealing half-chewed pūhā and spuds. Elbows on tables. A banquet of bad manners.
Wilson seems to have Reen’s manners. Choosing carefully from his plate with knife and fork, chewing thoughtfully before swallowing. But eventually he discards his knife, fork and good manners and picks up a bone – and like every other Māori in the room he gives it a good old chew before sucking in deep. Bone marrow is dislodged from its bony home, and like sucked-back phlegm it sticks in his airway, just shy of suffocation. He retches slightly, as a cat would, and then coughs the marrow up, chewing it again with pleasure before swallowing it for the last time.
‘Tut-tut,’ Reen remonstrates, and narrows her brow.
Wilson takes no notice.
‘I don’t think they want me here,’ Wai says.
‘What makes you say that?’ says Reen.
‘I can tell the way people look at me. Lorinda was horrible, and if you hadn’t come and sat with me I’d be alone now.’
‘I would have sat with you, Wai,’ Wilson says.
‘Yeah, but we’re special, eh.’ Wai gives him a wink.
Wilson is stopped by her statement. He cocks his head and looks at her, thoughtful, and in the end decides just to accept the compliment, and smiles.
Reen places her knife and fork on her plate. ‘Everyone here is related except you and me. I might be Dion’s wife but at the end of the day I’m not one of them – I never was and never will be. At least you’re Māori,’ she points out, reaching for positives. ‘They like to catch up and talk with their relations, that’s all. You’ll see, they’re a nice bunch really, though that Lorinda has got it coming to her one day, I tell you.’
‘Do you think it’s because I’m a queen?’ Wai says.
‘Are you a queen?’ Wilson looks surprised. ‘The Queen of what? The Queen of where?’
Wai smiles, almost laughs.
‘Some people might be bothered by it,’ Reen admits. ‘But … see those women at the kitchen counter?’
‘What – those two over there?’ – Wai nods towards two ladies leaning on a
bench with damp tea towels tossed across their shoulders.
‘They virtually run this kitchen. They’re …’ Reen looks at Wilson. ‘You know, lillies,’ she says. ‘And Uncle Alec, he doesn’t have a … um … friend or anything like that but he’s that way too, I reckon!’ The words; she can’t bring herself to say them. Not in front of Wilson; they might be contagious. ‘There’s another one like you who grew up close by. He, I mean she, lives in Wellington. She owns a cafe.’
‘You mean Carmen?’ says Wai.
‘Yes, that’s her. The Rupe family are from around here. Such a nice family. I know her sister, Tess, very well. A lovely woman. And then there’s old Hemi, who does all the cooking in the kitchen. He comes from a good family, and he’s one of those as well. You’re not alone, dear. My goodness, perhaps there’s something in the water.’
Wai looks at Wilson. ‘Mmmm, perhaps there is,’ she says.
Wilson pretends he isn’t interested. He munches on his food, all the while listening intently. ‘How long have you known my mother?’ Wilson asks Wai.
Reen sits up.
‘We’ve known each other for ages,’ Wai says.
‘Since I was born?’
‘Pass me the bread, please, Bub,’ Wai says. Avoid and ignore.
‘Do you know who my real father is?’
This stops Wai. She looks to Reen for help. If Wai is stuck for words then Reen is treading quicksand. Her mouth opens and closes like a goldfish.
‘I don’t think this is the time to talk about that, Wilson,’ Wai says. ‘You know, with the funeral and things. Perhaps we can have this talk some other time, eh? When you’re older.’
‘You do know, don’t you?’ Wilson says. His ten-year-old eyes stare Wai down. He is so calm that Wai realises he knows exactly what he is doing.
‘Now, Wilson, that’s enough,’ Reen says. ‘You heard Wai – when you’re a little older we can visit Wai perhaps and …’ Her voice trails off.
‘We won’t be able to find her.’
‘I’ll leave you my address,’ Wai assures him.
‘What if you move?’
‘Then I’ll let you know.’
Wilson’s not convinced but lets it go. ‘Do you really play rugby?’ he asks.
‘God, no! What gave you that idea, kiddo?’ Wai asks, relieved.
‘I knew it! Aunty’s a liar – she said you’re a hooker,’ Wilson says. ‘I hate rugby.’
‘Stop! Enough! Do you hear me, Wilson?’ Reen is stern.
***
Mihi remains by the coffin while everyone else eats – she won’t eat until Maria is buried. Relieved for a little time alone with Maria, she talks to her dead daughter.
‘Auē, e kōtiro, I’m sorry. I wasn’t there for you.’ She tries not to think of her daughter with a needle in her arm, but the vision is persistent. When she closes her eyes other visions of Maria fill her mind. She knew Maria was a prostitute but she doesn’t want to see it, and she opens her eyes again.
Mihi gently wipes her own tears from Maria’s face. She senses movement.
‘I’ll leave you if I’m interrupting,’ says Wai, backing away.
‘No, my dear, you’re not interrupting; I need to speak to you. Come and join us. We won’t be alone for long. Quick, sit down here.’ Mihi pats the mattress.
‘How long have you known Maria?’ she asks Wai.
‘Since we were fifteen – we lived with the same foster parents.’
Mihi looks Wai in the eye. ‘Do you know what happened to her first child?’
‘She was adopted out.’
‘I know that, but do you know who took her?’
‘No, I don’t. Even Maria didn’t. They got her to sign the papers while she was drugged up in the hospital. She wasn’t going to adopt the baby out, you know; they made her. She wanted you to have it.’
‘I didn’t know that,’ Mihi replies quietly. She looks at Wai. ‘I assumed she consented to the adoption, and she never told me any different. Why?’
Wai shrugs.
‘You two were close?’ Mihi asks her.
‘Yes, we stayed friends after leaving the foster home. I left first to live in Wellington and Maria joined me later. We stayed there until after Wilson was born and then we moved to Auckland.’
‘Do you know who Wilson’s father is?’
Wai looks away from Mihi and lets out a sigh. She looks down at her hands and bites her lip. She has been put completely on the spot, and she knows she cannot let that particular cat out of the bag. She doesn’t look up again, but answers as convicingly as she can: ‘No! No I don’t, Mrs Wharerangi. That’s one thing I can’t tell you. I’m sorry.’ Wai pauses for effect and then changes the subject. ‘I wasn’t there when she overdosed. I told her it’d kill her one day, but I didn’t really believe it.’
‘Did she have some happiness?’ Mihi asks.
‘All Maria wanted from life was to be popular, rich and free. She was popular and free and she made quite a lot of money, but I wouldn’t say she was rich. Maria was born and lived in the sun. She did everything she wanted to do. She lived life full-on. She was happy in her own way.’
Mihi turns and concentrates on Maria’s face while speaking to Wai. ‘There’s something I must tell you. Nobody but us, her immediate family, know that Maria was taken off us.’ Mihi pauses. ‘I mean stolen! Everyone else thinks she went to boarding school. Her father and I were the only ones who knew she was pregnant. Even Dion and Lorinda don’t know she had a child before Wilson. My husband is dead, so now that leaves only me and you.’ Mihi doesn’t take her eyes off Maria.
‘Don’t worry, Mrs Wharerangi; I won’t be telling anyone, I promise.’
***
It is day two, and Josie is sitting with Wai and Dion on a garden wall by the wharekai, watching a group coming to pay their respects. Josie is talking Wai’s head off. ‘Good on them, eh girl, they always come when there is a tangi,’ she says. ‘See that Pākehā fulla over there? That’s Georgie McCormish.’
She points to a scrawny man wearing browny-grey pants made of wool. The pants look as though they’ve been knitted fresh from the sheep’s back. His shirt is something corn-coloured, soft – it fluffs out around his braces. He coughs a wet cough, wiping a hankie across his eye – his bad eye. Damp-looking, the hanky passes over his empty socket.
‘He has a false eye,’ Josie tells Wai, ‘but he hardly ever wears it. They reckon that he sucks on his glass eye when he’s not wearing it, to keep it moist.’ Georgie McCormish rolls something around in his toothless mouth. It could be gum.
‘Yuck, is that true?’ Wai asks Dion.
‘Dunno, but he’s always chewing something.’
‘How did he lose his eye?’ Wai asks.
‘I dunno; I haven’t arksed him,’ Josie mumbles. ‘Arks him yourself later on.’ Then she tells Wai, ‘He’s got a toilet that turns his shit into compost and he feeds it to his vegetables.’
Images of shit-eating veges invade Wai’s thoughts.
Dion says, ‘You wanna see his veges, though – huge buggers, hideous fucken things. When he gives them to us we chuck them to the pigs after he’s gone.’ Dion giggles.
‘That’s Mrs Bacon, the baby-birther-lady,’ says Josie, pointing to a woman sitting next to Georgie McCormish.
‘A midwife,’ George amends.
‘Whateva! Half the village was dropped on her table. Jesus, look at the size of her legs – she gets fatter every time I see her. When she was pregnant you didn’t even know. Next minute she’s coming back from hospital with another pēpi. I think even she was freaked out once when she went into labour, eh George?’
‘Who’s the little fulla next to her?’ asks Wai.
‘That’s her old man.’
‘Huh! Imagine him going down on her,’ Wai chuckles.
‘Yeah, lost in space.’ Josie laughing.
‘Lost in space – looking for cling-ons, more like it.’ George laughing louder.
‘Hell, man, you’d
have to roll her in flour first and look for the damp bit.’ They’re screeching now, and someone tells them to shut up.
Josie ignores the voice and points to two men. ‘Those guys next to the fat chick, they’re Italians.’
‘No they’re not,’ Dion pipes up. ‘They’ve got an Italian coffee-maker, dummy – that doesn’t make them Italian.’
‘Whatever! Honkies, then. They’re twins, identical twins,’ Josie says.
Wai looks at them; they look nothing alike. ‘Yeah, identical, like your two brain cells, eh girl?’ Wai can’t help herself, but Josie doesn’t get it and carries on unoffended. Dion is pissing himself.
‘They live up on the hill in that flaaash house.’ As though the whole world knows where it is.
‘Yeah, they’re rich, man,’ Josie says. ‘Wouldn’t you love to get your claws into one of them, eh?’ She nudges Wai.
Wai is feeling comfortable now. Maria’s whānau are a friendly bunch after all – even Josie, who was laughing at her yeserday. To Wai’s relief, Lorinda has left her alone.
Little does Wai know, but Mihi had spoken to Lorinda the night before, when they were in the shower block alone. ‘I hear you have been making trouble with Wai,’ Mihi said.
Lorinda didn’t answer.
‘If I ever hear you speak rudely to a visitor on this marae again – any visitor – I’ll give you the thrashing of your life, right out there in front of everyone else, twenty-nine years old or not. Do you understand me miss?’ Mihi was as calm as the night outside.
Lorinda understood. She nodded and held her tongue. Of course her mother might not have followed through with the threat, but you could never be quite sure with Mihi. Lorinda remained quiet on the outside but her anger smouldered: a little Ngāuruhoe in her belly.
***
Wai joins Hemi in the kitchen to help with dinner, peeling endless spuds and kūmara. Later they go outside for a break, sitting on the kitchen’s back step.
‘Hey, girl,’ Hemi says, ‘next time I’m in Auckland let’s get on the bash. Whataya reckon?’
‘You’re way too much trouble for me, man,’ Wai replies. ‘Wannanutha cuppa?’
Huia Short Stories 9 Page 21
