by Alan Duff
Lost his dance timing in the instant. And the girl looks suddenly dumb.
In the moment before he lifts the punching ante Chud knows — he knows a step too far. But too far gone for the rational thought to take charge, no one's in charge least of all himself.
Gone, he just keeps punching. But that's not Chud, it's a crazed wild animal escaped from the cage and attacking what he thinks are his cruel keepers. And his best friend has pushed through the crowded dance floor.
Takes two large security men to haul the animal off. His roar stronger than the amplified songs out of six big speakers. He never raised his voice to dogshit father or lowlife mother. He wouldn't have dared.
They bundle him out down an alley the alarmed and wary dancers have formed for his passage, he's twisting and kicking and spitting, gone of this world. Not that he was ever allowed to be part of it in the first place.
There are enough to know the smoothie boy Yank has lost his bodyguard best mate, so the trouble's not over yet.
Outside, outside under the star-filled sky yet giving of no light, several youths have punched Yank to the ground; another has grabbed his girl companion from behind, while his mate thrusts a hand up her skirt feeling for all he's worth and crying out to his numbskull mates she's ready for it! As if her whole night has been spent waiting eagerly for her prize boy catch to be beaten up and her fanny felt by roughest hand and mean-thrusting fingers, and being held by the throat is what turns every girl on.
When the moon lights the scene, the fallen youth is blind to it in his slumped foetus curl, this form on the grass knowing he's learned a life lesson. Don't upset the other animals in the pen.
Inside, inside the police cell that natural light has never touched and strongest commercial detergent has failed to rid of the liquid spillings of males in wretched condition — vomit and urine and runny shit and semen, the smell that hurting leaves, detergent can never cover the collected foul body odours, the putrid stink of the banal and less than ordinary masses who find themselves here. Well, inside here, the cops have given Chud a bit of a working over and written it down in the station log book that prisoner so-and-so had to be restrained by force due to his violent behaviour.
And so he's feeling not only unloved and a stupid juvenile who went many punches too far, but hard done by, unjustly beaten by men in official positions who have no right and ought to know better. Angrier, way down deep in him where love should reside.
The door unlocks and the burly sergeant fills the doorway, reminds of Yank's old man, Henry, big and intimidating and frightening to even a physical powerhouse like young Chud. Yet a fatherly kindness there too — if you were the cop's kid. If you weren't in one of his cages.
Sergeant's tongue clicks, my, my, my, are you in trouble.
Yeah, he's known that for some time. Now he wants to die. Probably his whole short life wanted to do that.
CHAPTER TWENTY-FOUR
RAIN PELTING DOWN LIKE A tropical downpour, when Henry finds his old wartime mate Barney sitting on his bench by the river.
Hey, Barney, get under my umbrella. But Barney doesn't move, just sits staring straight ahead, drenched, hair flattened over skull, shirt showing his every muscle, trousers against powerful thighs; he was some athlete in his day, not fair what war stole from such a fine specimen.
You all right? You'll catch cold sitting out in this. Go and jump in a bath and enjoy this wet in comfort. Henry grins, but Barney neither moves nor speaks. Not that Henry expected conversation: what they've exchanged over the years since coming home is friendship and Henry's protection of his mate who lost part of his mind in an incident he may not remember.
At first they thought it was his hearing. It wasn't; it was picking bits of his brother Harold from his hair, off his face, wiping the blood splatters and brain matter from his helmet, fat gore and exploded flesh bits all over a man right down to his boots where part of a finger got lodged in the lace as if trying to knot it. All of that had put the inner trembling in a man and run off with his means to speak properly.
Happened near the end of the war, not that anyone knew for certain it was going to end, just that things had swung all the allied forces' way and monumentally weary men dared to believe they could go home any time soon because of the number of German corpses, thousands of disabled tanks, reports the allies had sacked Berlin and captured or killed Hitler himself.
Barney refused to be invalided home, conveyed to his commanding officer he must go where his brother's remains were hurriedly buried to grieve properly for him. Captain Henry Takahe kept insisting Barney was not in fit state, he must return home where he must surely know his loved ones would help his recuperation. His mates had to restrain Barney from assaulting his commanding officer; a most serious offence even for a man lost of his speaking ability and just lost of his beloved brother, even for a man related to that officer.
Henry took Barney back up to the hill then and let him howl for a good couple of hours. It was agreed to keep quiet about Barney's injury to respect his wish of seeing the war out like a man and for sake of his brother's memory.
Now for the third time Henry asks Barney if he's all right. Finally Barney looks up, wet running from his matted hair but under the shadow of Henry's umbrella, shakes head and points at Henry, words trying to form, wanting to form, but all he can manage is: you . . . you . . . you wrong, 'Enry.
Wrong about what? And why is Barney crying? Or is that rain water running from his scalp?
Henry sits down beside Barney. Tell me with signs, I can put it together. Doesn't know that putting his hand on Barney's shoulder wracks Barney with guilt and he pulls away from the gesture like a man caught eating another man's food. Tucker they called it in the war, which you shared to the last crumb. Same as you were prepared to die for a mate.
Le-na, Barney gets out. Which has Henry stiffen at mere mention of his wife's name and the context not too flash by Barney's expression. For surely that's not hatred an old mate is seeing?
Barney, what's the look for? I'm not feeling comfortable all of a damn sudden.
The damaged war veteran is with risen hackles himself. Jabs at his own chest: you talking to me in a tone like that? I am sure I know something about you.
Barney gestures that Henry hit his wife — again. Henry tries to shrug it away, says, women.
But Barney shakes his head adamantly, not how a woman should be treated. With respect, he tries to say and Henry anyway knows.
Our marriage was never the same after the war, Barns. You know why. Plus, things had changed with both of us. Five years apart at a young age is just too long.
Well still don't hit her, Henry.
I'll try. Hard when you never knew any different.
Henry gets up. I'm going to do stocktake, want to come with me? I'll call the quantities, you write them down. Then we'll have a few beers afterward, just you and me, talk about things. What do you reckon?
Watching the two old friends pass under the memorial archway, by names of their fallen comrades etched into metal plaques that each man puts a hand on, like stroking a dying mate. She is lover to both men.
On the other side of the memorial archway in its centre a Maori warrior statue guards this blessed place with spear and fierce expression, tongue thrust out, daring any stranger to come here with any but best intentions.
A woman smiles in the rain with every best intention for this funny little world that could be anywhere at times, but today uniquely Waiwera. Henry still doesn't know her secret. Not sure she knows her own secret, the one deep inside her that only one man of long ago let speak.
CHAPTER TWENTY-FIVE
A THIRD OF HIS MONEY has gone on the motor car. A Vauxhall Velox, green the only colour in the car yard. The cost of freedom, a young man liberated. Another third spent over the payment period on electric guitar, amplifier and speakers.
School is two terms behind him. He has a job in trainee management at the town post office, arranged by Mrs Mac. Not really
him, but it's a job to pay the rent on a flat in town and living expenses. A full life, with the band practising every night and all weekend. Elvis Presley numbers dominate their repertoire. Their looks are clones of Elvis. Though Yank has started to move on from Presley, he's discovered black music through a parcel of single and long-player records sent by his father.
You say you'd like to be a musician. Well, listen to these artists, I think you'll like them. Don't be overawed by the standard they set, these are exceptional people chosen from all of America, two hundred million to choose from. Negroes are born musical. And you'll probably know from school their long history of great suffering created great music. Mississippi is a breeding ground for black musicians. Even redneck whites enjoy their music. Hope you enjoy. Write and let me know. Fondest. Jess.
Now Sam Cooke and Ray Charles numbers have been added to the repertoire, and the sound is proving very difficult to emulate. He practises on the three-hour drive.
Borstal. He grew up hearing the term and took no notice as it's not a place he expected to end up. But when Chud got sentenced, Yank found out from Mrs Mac it is an English penal institution for youths, this country being founded on British principles of politics, including law and order.
He wonders how they put boys of fifteen to nineteen in a place like this? A grim brick building sprawl, coiled barbed wire on high walls, several watch towers where he sees the outline of guards behind glass, no different to a prison. He's seen movie scenes like this. But as a place of residence for his best friend?
He's arrived with three hours of spring wind in his face, singing songs learned from the records his father sent, feeling pretty good. Sam Cooke is still the vocal benchmark, Yank frustrated he can hear every perfect note and subtle phrasing yet can't come close to imitating the man. Don't be overawed.
Through a life-weary security check, Yank is feeling overawed at this place. Has to show his driver's licence to a guard, is directed to a door which turns out to be a series of doors, leading to a large visiting room.
Takes a seat at a table broad enough to sit three on his side. The room is filling up with other visitors, mothers and girlfriends, some with small child in unknowing tow. Every adult has a certain look. Not Yank's type, not a one.
He hears the clang of steel grilles opening and closing through the inmate entrance. Jangle of keys as several young men appear the other side and a guard unlocks.
In walk five swaggering young men in blue denim and grey jacket uniform, Chud at first hard to recognise he's grown so much. And his expression is so different. Though not when he breaks into smile at seeing Yank.
Relieved at seeing Chud put on the Elvis lopsided grin they used to practise along with the legs-apart stance Elvis took, Yank stands and Chud comes over and they shake hands.
Afterwards Yank can't remember the first awkward minutes of conversation, of Chud's eyes constantly roving to fellow inmates, or just unable to hold Yank's gaze. Says there's not one boy from Waiwera in here, how he misses home but it's all right here, you get used to it. And I've got a couple more guys to fight to be kingpin.
Has to explain the term. Which makes sense, as Chud is one hell of an athlete and always had plenty of anger to give him fighting advantage — if that's what's important. And clearly it is. (Yank never liked violence.)
Chud leans forward, with the eyes of a fervent door-knocking fringe Christian looking for converts, says do you know how hard it is to be kingpin at age eighteen? Some of these guys are going on twenty, soon be moved to a men's prison. Yank, I'm in a fight every few days. Wonks wanting to take me on, knock me back down the ladder. But I beat them all. You should see the respect I got in here.
To a friend who doesn't know what to say. Who thinks, fighting for the sake of it?
Then Chud says, I bet you got yourself a pretty girl now.
No.
Come on, the girls always liked you.
Yeah, and I like them too. Just in no hurry for a girlfriend.
Chud got a funny smile on. Oh? You happy playing the field? As if he wanted to hear Yank say no. As if desperate for Yank to say no.
Too busy. I formed a band. Told you in my letter I bought a car, with money my father sent.
Lucky you. Chud's face says envy is choking him.
They talk about the different songs the band plays, Chud playing more knowledgeable than his lifelong friend knows he is. Yank switches to rugby, how Chud's team is doing without him (not very well). Chud tries to force back his proud grin. They need me.
Yank wants to say, and you let them down.
Words run out, from both of them. Why Chud grows suddenly animated, over the top in saying goodbye? Out of relief the visit is over. Making Yank promise he'll visit again, but no hurry. You got things to do. So have I. Even in here. Laughing. Moving his weight from one foot to the other, like he does when covering up hurt or embarrassment.
He drives home thinking his friend's life has sort of come to an end. As if the first journey wasn't bad enough, now he's starting a worse one. Makes Yank sad and afraid for his friend.
CHAPTER TWENTY-SIX
FROM A SIGHT MOST DAUNTING the crowd become our subjects, puppets on the ends of our music-making strings, my singing and rhythm guitar, drummer, bass, saxophone, and Nigel Blake on lead guitar. Hundreds of bobbing heads in changing colours cramming the hall before us, The Viscounts, a name Nigel found in a history book about old England.
Us. The band, centre of attention, manipulators of these young people their happiness. Grinning at each other: all ours.
From Elvis we hit them next with a surprise, know they'll stop dancing not knowing what to make of the song, a track from a long player my father sent (his taste is amazing). Pitched at the top of my note range: we argued about dropping it to an easier level. I said no, I've tried that and the song loses everything. Otherwise the song came naturally, like the rasp Negro singers have.
They get like this our subjects, at first open-mouthed at hearing the quite unfamiliar. At it being a no-dancing number when young people like to dance. Looking up at me as lead singer, telling me I had better sing it good, the band had better be on their game, or we're through.
So I just close my eyes and sing in imitation of a song from one of the records my father sent. From Mississippi, America, to here at a dance hall in Two Lakes, New Zealand.
Have to reach the emotional high at the end of the song or our subjects will revolt, they'll riot at the prince letting them down, he shouldn't have built them to this state if he wasn't certain he could deliver. I have to. We have to make them our slaves.
Need a bomb to blow out the noise erupted in here. A part Maori, half white American imitator, with help from his friends of course, has caused a sensation. The prince and his inner court have produced nothing less than a miracle, taken the audience to a place they can never come back from, they're there now, over yonder, where musical giants await. They are saying, we've bought it! Meaning lucky us, the deliverers of another's musical originality.
During the night glorious performing in return for adulation: we can have any young woman we want. Which spurs us young men to greater heights of being desired.
From up on our elevated platform I have views, should I wish, of the big sliding entrance doors, opened to let cooler air in, when I see someone right out of her age group. Framed in the centre, with light behind so I can't see her features.
No need to. I would know her body shape, her presence anywhere.
We're doing a medley of songs by various artists; our subjects, many of them, are singing the words of the chorus imploring a girl to answer her phone. The usual anguish of song lyrics about the hurt and glory of love. The infinite need of humans all on the same theme. And there love is, throwing a smile right over the heads of my subjects solely at and for me.
Where have you been, Mrs Blake? Can hear her in my mind saying, call me Isobel. Yet she won't say my given name. Not that names matter.
In his dancing arms
Isobel, singing to her in the tiny living room of his flat, discarded clothes strewn on the floor, curtains pulled. A hundred, two hundred times he's played this number, and still it opens his heart and sends forth sung-along lyrics to the woman of no age, the love she's taught him, how she's enshrined women, taught him woman.
She has come back, to the youth a couple of years more receptive, more open to the learning she has to give him.
Kiss me. Kiss me, the lyrics implore, with emphasis on kiss. As if the act itself. Singing it now right into her mouth. Kiss me. Kiss me.
CHAPTER TWENTY-SEVEN
MUM, WIKI AND MANU CALLED in to say hello. Didn't hear the knocking for the music from my new record player. Thank you, Jess. Forgot how good looking my mother was, the long, thick, straight hair and proud features Merita told me carried her noble ancestry. Green-grey eyes and a mother's smile for her special son.
I cast around in case there was evidence of my lover's visit of last night, if there was her perfume scent lingering, anything to say a woman of my mother's age group had been here. My sister and brother naturally casting kids' curious eyes everywhere.
Mum had a new hair styling; I wasn't sure it suited her. It was the village woman trying to go city. Still, now I could see the appeal she would have had to my American father. The explicit details weren't going to enter my mind but I did see some parallels. Now I did.
Wiki most impressed by the amplifier and microphone set-up, as I shifted my gear back and forth between Nigel's parents' garage and the flat to get more practice in. As my kid sister and brother were my audience here I boasted at how well the band was doing, but my mother ruined it: with some help from money sent from America, she said. So I suddenly discovered resentment at this unannounced family call since Mum was scratchy. Wondered why she'd bothered. What if I'd been in an intimate situation? And how would I have explained my lover's age?
