‘I don’t know how much luck they will bring you, but you can mind them. Once we’re home, you should take them back to Jack and Matatau’s people. You will be responsible for them.’
Riki nods, and Rewai hands him the ring and the scarab.
‘Just rest up, eh? Me and Little Mo are all right.’
Riki crawls back to the shelter. He takes off the identity disc from his neck and laces the ring on to it. He tries to tuck the scarab into his diary, but it makes the cover bulge. He opens the diary to the blank back pages, and traces around the scarab. Then he uses a penknife to carve a hole in the pages so that the diary can shut with the scarab sitting snugly inside.
He fishes Matatau’s sister’s letter out of his pocket. The front of the envelope is folded to the inside; the lip of the envelope with the return address is on the outside. She hasn’t written her full first name on the envelope, just ‘M. Whetewhete’. Riki’s heard the name ‘Whetewhete’ before – he vaguely remembers some distant relations of that name who he once visited when he was little. How were they related again? Marriage?
And then he realises why the name is so familiar. He knows who Matatau’s sister might be. He rips open the envelope and scans down the letter until he finds her signature:
Yours faithfully,
Maraea.
22
10 OCTOBER 1975
TRANSCRIPT:
Cassette number 4: Te Ariki Mikaera Pūweto (interviewee, WWI veteran) and Alamein Pūweto (interviewer and grandson of Te Ariki). Also present: Taimona Pūweto (daughter and caregiver of Te Ariki).
TAIMONA Tell us how you and Mum fell in love.
TE ARIKI No. Who would want to know that? It is only important to me and your mother.
TAIMONA No. It’s important to all of us. We wouldn’t be here unless you two married. It was fate …
TE ARIKI Fate? Your mother would have hated that. The boy doesn’t want to hear that story; that’s got nothing to do with history.
ALAMEIN That’s not entirely true, Koro. You can’t just think of history as the big events.
TE ARIKI Well, I guess it is true that small acts can have a huge impact further down the line.
ALAMEIN So, what was your small act?
TE ARIKI I read a letter. When I got back to the front line from the hospital, she had written me a letter. Of course, I didn’t read it right away, as I didn’t know her. I didn’t know her at all. But her brother had died …
ALAMEIN She would have known about Matatau’s death by then?
TE ARIKI Rewai had sent her a letter straight away – he had taken Matatau and Jack’s identity discs from their bodies, and their personal effects. We had this deal, you see, all of us soldiers. That we would write back home to the families, to let them know. It was truly awful back then. They didn’t let our families know by telegram, or however they let the Pākehā families know. They just published their photographs in the paper – that’s how your family found out that you had died. Can you imagine that? To open the paper and see your son’s face amongst the many who had died? So we agreed that we’d do our best to let whānau at home know. To let them know that someone had cared about them and their boys; that they had some respect in their death.
ALAMEIN So you read her letter?
TE ARIKI Eventually. And then she wrote another. [Laughs] She told me off.
ALAMEIN Why?
TE ARIKI For not answering her original letter. She said it was rude. Like I said, I didn’t know her from a bar of soap, and she had the cheek … Well, I had to write to her then, didn’t I?
ALAMEIN Because she had growled you?
TE ARIKI No, not just that. I wanted to – I needed to – tell her how sorry I was. I wanted to tell her that I knew what it was like to be all alone in the world.
TAIMONA And that’s how you fell in love …
TE ARIKI No, you silly girl. That’s how we started to write to each other. You can’t fall in love by letter – you don’t truly know a person from the words they write. Especially not during the war; we had to be careful what we wrote. A letter, at best, is a shadow of a person. It is their best picked words, a crafted story; it can never be a true person. Only a fool would fall in love with the idea of a person.
TAIMONA Well, I think it’s romantic.
TE ARIKI It is not romantic. Love so easily won or given just cheapens true love. And I don’t mean the Mills and Boon kind of love you’re thinking of. To me true love is the love that endures after the excitement of lust is over. It doesn’t just happen; it is not an object that you keep like a treasure. It is the work of every waking day to keep love alive.
TAIMONA If you didn’t love her, why did you keep writing? You kept writing right up until the end of the war.
TE ARIKI Beyond the war, really. I wrote to her when I came back to New Zealand.
TAIMONA You might not want to admit it, but I’m sorry, that sounds like love to me.
TE ARIKI I was fond of her; I looked forward to her letters; but I didn’t truly love her. Not then, anyway.
ALAMEIN So when did you fall in love with Nanny Maraea?
TE ARIKI You see, there wasn’t just a moment when suddenly I was in love. It just kind of built up between us. I could be myself with her; I could tell her almost anything. But that’s getting ahead of myself. You see, when I came back to New Zealand I wasn’t sure how I fit in. I was by myself in the world.
TAIMONA Most of the family had been taken by the ’flu …
TE ARIKI Thank you, dear. Do you mind if I carry on? [Pause] I had nowhere to go, so I spent a bit of time travelling here and there. I went to visit Big Mo and Little Mo, and met their sisters and mother. I laboured on Rewai’s farm for a bit, and then I made my way to Rotorua to see if I could find any of Jack’s people. And then I visited Maraea. It was a strange meeting – we knew things about each other, but we didn’t know each other. You might not want to hear this, my darling, but I was determined not to love her. I was going to meet her, pay my respects and then that was it.
TAIMONA But why?
TE ARIKI I was confused. I didn’t know what to do with my life. I felt like I had no control over anything; that my life was like one of those chutes farmers drive livestock through – gates opening and closing, so it looks like you’re picking your path, but really there is only one way to go.
TAIMONA And Mum changed that.
TE ARIKI Love, go make us a cup of tea.
TAIMONA But I want to hear what you have to say …
TE ARIKI And I don’t want you to hear it. You can listen to the tape when I’m dead and buried, but I can’t tell you now.
[TAIMONA leaves the room]
TE ARIKI The truth is that we were related, Nanny Maraea and me.
ALAMEIN How? You weren’t cousins or anything …
TE ARIKI No, not cousins. We were … distantly related, but related all the same. And because of that, the attraction I felt for her, from the moment I met her, just felt wrong, and it disgusted me.
[ALAMEIN laughs]
TE ARIKI What’s funny about that, boy?
ALAMEIN Koro, in a country this small, everyone is linked somehow. Then you take Māori, who are a significantly smaller pool … You can’t get hung up about distant relations. Are you OK, Koro?
TE ARIKI It’s just so hard to explain; to make you understand. She was distant, but not distant enough. I knew in my mind that I shouldn’t get involved with her.
ALAMEIN But your heart had other ideas?
TE ARIKI Not sure about my heart, but other parts of my anatomy certainly did.
ALAMEIN Aw, Koro, that’s my nanny you’re talking about.
TE ARIKI I thought you wanted the real history? There was a strong attraction on both sides, and one night we acted on it. It might just have been a one night thing, but …
ALAMEIN Uncle Jack?
TE ARIKI Uncle Jack. The story was that Maraea packed up her bags and came with me to Wellington. The truth is that she came down to find me. And I did
what you did in those days. I married her. And then eventually along came your father, Hahona, then Taimona …
ALAMEIN But you didn’t love her then?
TE ARIKI No, like I said, it grew over time. Sometimes I think how my life might have been different if I had never gone to visit her. Not better, just different.
[Knock on the door]
TAIMONA Can I come back in? I have the tea.
ALAMEIN Let’s have a break now, eh, Koro?
TE ARIKI No, no. We can keep going while we have our tea. What do they say? Keep rolling?
ALAMEIN Yes, I guess that’s what they say.
[Tea is poured]
TAIMONA I don’t know why I had to leave …
TE ARIKI There are some things that are between a man and his wife …
TAIMONA But you told Alamein.
TE ARIKI He’s not my moko in this capacity. He’s like a doctor or a priest.
TAIMONA [Laughs] This is not a confessional!
TE ARIKI I know that. I’m not asking for forgiveness …
ALAMEIN Aren’t you?
TE ARIKI No. I don’t think I need to be forgiven for the life I’ve led. I made my choices, good and bad.
ALAMEIN What do you want then?
TE ARIKI For my whānau to know the truth about me. My children, my grandchildren and my great-grandchildren … do I dare to think our line will go on?
ALAMEIN There will be a great-grandchild in a few weeks.
TAIMONA Are you and Robyn excited?
ALAMEIN Terrified.
TE ARIKI [Laughs] You ought to be. That daughter of yours will be a handful …
TAIMONA They might have a son.
ALAMEIN If we do have a son, we were thinking of naming him after you, Koro …
TE ARIKI No. Don’t do that. No one in our family should have the burden of this name. I forbid it! No one will ever be named after me. Not that it matters now. You’ll have a daughter.
23
13 DECEMBER 1915
Most of the time Riki tries not to think about home. Sometimes it’s quite surprising how easy it is not to think about it, and just let himself get caught up in the day. But when he does think about home, it feels like he has something in his throat; that it’s closing over and he won’t be able to breathe. He’s never been homesick, even when he was a little kid. He remembers a school trip when he was nine or ten. After everyone had gone to bed, after the excitement of the day had worn off, a couple of the boys started whimpering. Riki could hear one of them whispering over and over again: I want to go home. He didn’t understand how that boy felt until now.
It is fine today, and comparatively warm. Riki wishes he could stretch out on top of the dugout to sunbathe – if you can call lying in the sun in a greatcoat and balaclava sunbathing. He’s felt frozen right through for ages now. He imagines lying there in the sun letting the warmth burrow into him, defrosting his bones. Then he tries to put the thought out of his mind – he is cold, but he doesn’t have a death wish. Lately, it has been quiet: just the usual machine guns and sniper fire, not the heavy artillery. But today the Turks seem to be hitting them hard.
‘Are they trying to use up all their bombs?’ Riki says.
‘Maybe they’re trying to get home for Christmas,’ Little Mo says.
‘I don’t think they celebrate Christmas,’ Rewai says.
‘Well, that’s a shame. No Christmas?’ Little Mo looks genuinely sad for the Turks, and Rewai pats him on the back.
Riki tries not to think of home. It would actually be getting warm now, and school would be out; well and truly out for him. He would have finished his exams, and high school. Everyone would have applied for varsity, and would be thinking of summer jobs. Riki would have applied for a job as a stock shelver, and taken on as many of the late-night shifts as he could; Gemma would have extended her hours at Kirkcaldies, maybe transferring from her usual counter to the Christmas shop. If they happened to have days off together, they would spend them at Lyall Bay – Gemma stretched out in the sun with a book and Riki on the water waiting for a decent set.
In this imagined present there would be no baby. Riki has no doubt that he and Gemma would have sorted it out. Maybe Gemma sorted it out herself.
He takes a swig of rum, hoping it will chase his thoughts away. Although he doesn’t want Gemma to be a mother and he doesn’t want to be a father, the thought of her getting rid of the baby while he has vanished – the thought of the last trace of him in his own time being gone – makes him hate her. How could she be so selfish? It’s weird, though: if he was there and she decided to keep it, he would probably hate her for that decision – he would think that she was selfish to tie him down like that.
He takes another drink. It feels good: making him warm and numb at the same time. Another day here, stuck in the dugout. They’ve already had months of this, and there are years ahead of them. That’s the worst thing for Riki – knowing that there are years ahead of them if they survive here.
Riki’s decided to write to Maraea, but it’s not as easy as he thought it would be. So far he’s managed only a few lines; he had to stop after writing how sorry he was for her loss. It was so disingenuous it made Riki feel bad to see it. But he can’t just come out with the truth – that he caused Matatau’s death. Even if it was in self-defence. Dead is dead, no matter the reason.
Rewai goes down to collect water in the afternoon. He comes back early in the evening, just as it is getting dark.
‘We’ve been ordered to pack up,’ he says. ‘Everything, the full kit. We’re moving out at 20:00 hours.’
‘Where are we going?’ Little Mo says.
Rewai has already started to pack his things. ‘Some are saying Imbros Island. Some are saying Egypt.’
‘Egypt?’ Riki says. ‘We’re going back to Egypt?’
‘I don’t know. That’s just what some have said.’
Riki starts packing his kit. Egypt. Maybe if they go back, back to where it started, he can go back too. That’s how magic and stories work isn’t it – in circles?
It doesn’t take more than a couple of hours to pack up. Riki, Rewai and Little Mo leave their dugout with little sentimentality; there is no goodbye to the hole in the ground in a hill that so many had died to take. They meet with other units – men that they haven’t seen in a while, at least not to talk to.
And then there is the confirmation that they are leaving Gallipoli; that they are being evacuated from the Peninsula. Riki thought that he would be elated at the news, but it feels like too little, too late. Too much has happened; too many have died.
‘We’re giving up?’ Little Mo says. ‘But what about the boys who died? We can’t leave them behind.’
‘What was the point in their deaths if we leave now?’ Rewai says, crushing a cigarette beneath his foot.
‘What was the point in any of it?’ Riki says.
They wait another hour or so before they are given the order to march down to the beach to wait for transport. They join the line of men trudging down to the beach. At least they are on the move now; all the waiting has put Riki on edge. Not that they’re going at any great speed. They’re slower than a tortoise that’s been run over by a gun carriage – even though there are fewer men than they’d arrived with.
Some people might describe moonlight as lovely; if Riki were anywhere else, anytime else in the world, he might agree. The light makes it easy to see the path as the troops make their way slowly down from Chunuk Bair. It is hard to believe that only a couple of months ago they had charged up this hill to claim it as theirs. They walk slowly and quietly, in single file or in small groups, depending on the cover. There is no haka tonight – they can’t give their position away to the enemy. It feels like real defeat to Riki, slinking away at night.
The straps of his webbing cut into his shoulder, making his fingers tingle with pins and needles. He wishes they could just hurry up, so he can take the pack off. His small group has halted as they wait for the lot ahea
d of them to navigate a particularly bare spot. Riki sees the flash of a rifle above them; he hears the crack, and one of the men in front of them crumples to the ground. One of his mates turns back, and there is another flash, but this time the bullet misses. Riki watches as the soldier makes his way to his fallen friend – should he try to haul him down to the field hospital? Or should he just move the body out of the way? It is a terrible decision – one that has been made time and time again. The soldier rolls his friend out of the way, trudging on with his head down. Poor bugger; he almost made it off Gallipoli.
Riki’s group waits, unsure if they should wait for cloud cover or to try to slip their way past without it. In the end they walk down so slowly that it reminds Riki of the game ‘What’s the time Mr Wolf?’ that he used to play as a kid; the one where you try to sneak up on someone one step at a time and freeze whenever they turn around. It is the slowest one hundred metres he has ever walked.
It is almost midnight when they get down to the beach. There is little relief in it. Riki knows they are more exposed here.
‘Where’s the transport?’ Rewai says, and Riki hears the same question being asked all around them.
There’s nothing to do but wait for orders. And hope that the night is dark enough to conceal them. When it is finally clear that the transport is not ready yet, they take shelter in the trenches nearby. Riki takes off his gear and rotates his shoulder in circles, back to front, front to back, to try to relieve the pain. Rewai is still on alert, ready to go at any second. Little Mo has managed to fall asleep, leaning against his pack. The men are quiet but the night is not – the barrage has not let up.
It is another hour before they are ordered to move again. They march through the communication trenches close to the shore, but the going is even slower than before – they move only a hundred metres or so before they need to halt and wait again, for another half an hour.
‘What are we doing?’ Riki says. ‘It’s like we’re just zigzagging up and down, making no progress.’
Although the trenches are deep enough for most of them, Little Mo has been crouching almost the whole way. He must be feeling it, in his back or legs, because his face looks grim. ‘We should just make a run for it, down to the beach,’ Little Mo says. ‘I don’t need a transport; I could swim out to the ship. It doesn’t look too far to me.’
Legacy Page 14
