Dreamboat Dad

by Alan Duff

  CHAPTER FORTY-SEVEN

  IN HEAVY RAIN HENRY AND Manu walked under one jumbo umbrella grinning at keeping the wet out; it ran in streams at their feet down a sealed road with gutters and underground storm water as Henry told how he kept at the town council till they gave in.

  We could be wading through mud and stepping into ankle-breaking potholes, eh, son?

  What's a pothole, Dad?

  Made his father laugh. A hole that forms in a dirt road. As kids we used to sail little boats in them, out in the rain without a care. Gone now, thank goodness. I reckon we'll have the baths all to ourselves this morning.

  And so they did, five to choose from, the channels rag-stoppered by Barney, good old reliable Barney who could now converse though with moments of lapsing back into the shocked silence caused by that incident, which Henry never forgot, not anything of it, and had a suspicion Barney now remembered. But what matter now, all in the past never to be seen again.

  The rain hit their naked bodies hurrying out of the changing shed, blotted out any house lights that might be seen this seven o'clock winter Sunday morning hour, the sun yet to rise — not that it would bring much more than a dull grey light the first half hour.

  Sweet shock of contrast. Sweeter moment of father and son linked by the same vessel of water.

  Wash your back, Dad?

  Henry turned, lifted his weight to accommodate his son's gentle lathering. Rain hammering down. Man and boy's hearts pitter-pattering with love. River below them a swollen muddy rush.

  No other bathers appeared. They sang a song. Father as always told his son he had a fine developing voice but if he was harmonising to lower his volume to allow the lead to dominate. Let's swap parts. Sang as Henry washed his son's back, part of the ritual.

  They walked home. Henry said their roast mutton leg would be just right. Manu wondering if to say what was on his mind. He would.

  Dad? When I told the kids in my class we ate roast meat for breakfast, everyone laughed and said no one eats roast meat for breakfast. Are we the only ones?

  A question Henry had fielded before, from Mata and Wiki. Yank was sure to have wanted to ask the same, but in the circumstances . . .

  Henry said, people have different customs. Maoris come from a feast or famine culture so, like some dogs, say Labradors, we eat more than we need when food is around. Wasn't in nature's game plan for food to stay plentiful. That's why I'm fat. But contented fat. As you well know, people around here can sit down to a plate of pork bones, spuds and watercress at five in the morning. It's how we are.

  How you are, Dad . . .

  He looked at his son, almost the same height and still growing. I'll eat your share then?

  Not this morning. Manu grinned, bumped his father with a hip. Henry bumped back. Manu exclaimed at being briefly exposed to the rain. His father pulled him back with a big strong arm.

  Out of nowhere Henry heard himself say, wonder how your brother's doing in America. Saw Manu's surprise, the cover up.

  Lucky him.

  Oh, it won't be all beer and skittles. Not in Mississippi.

  Silence. They passed growling mud holes side by side. They teach you about how Negroes are treated in America, son?

  Only a little bit. American history. But mainly about the Civil War and their Constitution and laws and stuff. Glancing warily at his father.

  Wonder what they'd think of this place, Dad.

  Clearing his throat Henry said, well, a few did visit here, during the war . . . as we know. Coughed again. Lucky us who get to stay here.

  Manu gave his father another kind of glance.

  Dad? Do you think about Yank much?

  Why I just asked the question, I guess. Sometimes.

  No, I meant another kind of thinking.

  The past again, son. It rolls up on you before you know it, then it's moved on like a missed bus. Can't change how I reacted, if that's what you mean. You've been giving it some thought?

  Can't help it. He's my brother. Yet you're not—

  His father. As if I ever stopped thinking that every day.

  But, Dad, it must have stopped. That's what I figured.

  Guess it did. You wake up one day and realise the subject no matter means much, if anything. Maturity, growing up. That and more.

  You've been a good dad to me.

  And to Wiki. Tried with Mata but missed those first years. What do you think your big brother is doing right now? I think it's an eighteen-hour time difference, so that makes it one yesterday afternoon.

  You know this?

  Well, if my son's got a brother in those parts. Mississippi, from what I been told, is a place back in time in how they treat Negroes. Least here the whites have come to respect us and we have the same rights. I'd knock down any man of any race who showed me disrespect. Hope you would too.

  Manu, being partly his father's son, nodded yes, he would. Threw a knowing grin at his father, snuggled in closer under the arm. I guess he's getting into the music over there. At his father again, uncertain.

  Negro music, Henry said. They call it black music these days. Boy, does he love his black music. From a little boy he had an ear for it on the radio. I think he secretly liked my singing and I know he loved listening to our returned servicemen. If he gets famous, might be he remembers me, eh?

  He sure will. Manu was smiling, but that could have meant many things.

  CHAPTER FORTY-EIGHT

  THE CROWD, HE REMEMBERED THE crowd, the noise, the weight of collective demand, individuals yelled out criticism of individual players, or dismissed the whole team as useless. The different creatures spectators and players were. Yes, he remembered that.

  The opposition's supporters against everything the opponent's team did even the spectacular; two thousand and more jeering, laughing at any mistake, howling in delight if one of their boys put a big tackle on an opponent. Men against men, like war. Screaming like apes — not that this country had any but the human kind — when a fight broke out. Sometimes the blood lust spread, and scraps and even a mass brawl would erupt in the grandstand, on the sidelines; women fighting too.

  Women too: how would he ever forget his mother that day, supposed to be his finest eighty minutes and she decides to have an all-out fight with another shameless bitch right in front of the full grandstand — no. Must bury that memory.

  He remembered the power of the massed group, the Waiwera community, how if they did not yet approve of a player, consider he had proved himself in battle, no matter what he did their response was muted, no edge to it, no claiming of a beloved warrior son. No rushing their decision, quite the opposite, and nor could they be fooled: you either played well or you didn't. Today being the final, and him having started back only four games ago, they were wary. He knew why: he was a convict, once a star centre till jailed for violent offences; a nutcase thereafter, a lowlife like his parents. The young man of promise should have pursued rugby, been embraced by its spirit of self-control in the interests of the team till he grew out of his problems; that had worked for other troubled young men. The beauty of team, of close community living — your burdens got shared and the noise and clamour dissipated them. Years before, if he punched an opponent, the group would cheer and scream to finish him! But that was then. Before he went and made himself a criminal, hitting people.

  Grown far too big to stay a back player, Chud moved to blindside flanker in the forwards, his job to tidy up, be a feeder not a runner, a tackler but not a destroyer like the openside loosie of whom everything was expected. Nothing fancy, though every game could have its moments. Just be there, get the ball back, race behind the back line, pile in and support his tackled player, hunt for the ball, impose physicality, drop back if the defence was crowding and a turnover looked likely, be there to take a kicked ball or right beside the fullback as a back-up, or a rear guard if the opposition had closed in.

  In the lineouts he was an occasional surprise jumper to throw the ball to, wished he got it more as he w
as athletic, had spring heels, big hands, muscle and mongrel when the opposition applied dirty tricks. Except they, the people, did not want Chud's old response, not now they didn't. They wanted a new Chud.

  So when a punch dug into his ribs, Chud had to wear it, despite wanting to tear the guy apart. The spectators, village judge and jury, were silent awaiting his reaction. So was the referee, even more importantly — being sent off would bring the blade down as far as his supporters were concerned. More: he was going out with their beloved Henry Takahe's daughter and most were skeptical at how long that would last. Such a young man to have a bad past too.

  The punch was so hard it felt like a rib was cracked. He lost the take and fell to the ground, trying not to writhe in pain. A man doesn't do that. On his feet again he rushed for the action — the other side were in possession — saw his man, a picture in his mind of his swinging arm connecting with the bastard's throat. Especially as he was grinning at Chud. Grinning, the arsehole was.

  At the last moment Chud veered off his target and made a beeline for the ball carrier, to make a legal tackle. Threw himself at the man's knees, stopped him dead then reversed the man's forward momentum, drove him back.

  In the tackle he ripped the ball away and like a good number 6 looked for someone to feed it to. There: the openside flanker in the coveted number 7 jersey, the position requiring a tireless, heady, fast player devastating in the tackle. And as he watched the number 7 race in for the try, Chud hoped for approval as the man who fed the ball.

  They roared. He heard his name called. Not as much as Archie Tua's rose to the skies, but they knew his contribution, the self-discipline it had taken not to take revenge the dumb way. Now he could listen out for just one voice calling out she loved him. Not for being a warrior, but for being a man.

  She was urging him, go and join your team mates, enjoy the adulation, you deserve it. He did consider it but said, rather be with you.

  Their flat was quite bare as they were not long moved in. Had money just enough to buy basic furnishings and both were saving hard. Not that it mattered how spare the home surroundings, not when you were young and in love.

  Wonder how my brother's doing? You two better make up when he gets home.

  We will, Chud said. I miss him.

  Well, she said, giving him a look.

  What you said that night at the bath. Well.

  She laughed. Because you weren't taking a pretty obvious hint. Told you, I'd always more than liked you.

  I thought like a sister.

  Correct. Until the like-a-sister turned into a woman.

  You're only seventeen.

  Old enough.

  Well.

  Smiling at each other. The first female he neither feared nor loathed. The first female he had ever physically touched. The first he had ever made love with.

  CHAPTER FORTY-NINE

  WE'RE IN THE NEXT COUNTY, my boy and me, at a big club on the outskirts of a town called Irene, and my son's eyes are popping at the sight of this outlandish crowd. Pimps and hoods, a range of shady characters, and women loud works of art. I grew up with it but young Mark has never seen its like. Everybody showing, I tell him. People got nothing else but clothes and attitude to express, the language we evolved with its own rhythms and shades of meaning. Southern niggers can talk a bear out of his fur coat.

  Outrageous cats in sable coats, wearing shades indoors, suits that sparkle and so starched you can hear their crackling coming from outside. Big afros a style not long in, array of hats, from little skull caps to creations two foot tall, our race acquires jewelry like credit coupons against the life we live, we strut like cocks displaying plumage. Every pimp has his favourite whore or two in attendance. Every man has eye out for woman flesh. Every mean-looking face is on someone's payroll to watch his back. That's why guns are checked in at the door, minded by two giants. There's numbers guys and roving gamblers, dudes just out of the pen; I keep eye on the drug dealers: some psychotic on their own product might pick on my son, think he's white. Funny how he doesn't look white to me. I just see a son.

  It starts with a woman come over to our table asks my son does he want to dance. Later, honey, I tell her. Me and my man got breeze to shoot. She don't like the rejection. Goes back to a group I don't like the look of. But hell, the music's calling me, us both. Me and my boy.

  You is what you is. Cain't nothing change that. The singer up there has his eyes closed as he delivers. Hear my son say, this country spills over with musical talent. I feel ordinary in comparison.

  Don't be, son. You is what you is, I quote the song. I heard you sing and you got talent. And not because you're my son. I got a black ear for quality.

  Least the woman and her group let the song finish before they send their panther representative over, tall he is too, threads hanging off him like bark. He puts a paw adorned with chunky rings on the table front of me.

  This your pet Klan boy?

  Easy, brother. This is my son, my own flesh and blood.

  Look like you adopted it. The guy at Mark who is naturally taken by surprise. I should have warned him.

  We cool, brother. Just here to hear the man himself, Big Boy.

  You here, sure, like any nigger. But he — points at Mark. He from another planet. Planet called White. You ain't no nigger, not even a mulatto, he says to Mark. The hell you doin here?

  Same boat as you, brother, I answer on my son's behalf, starting to get mad. Same stormy sea we all on. I hope you reading this situation, my man. Put the menace in my tone.

  Up on stage the saxophonist is doing a solo riff and he's good — if I wasn't with such distraction. Don't mean no disrespect, I say, but this here young man is my true son, I swear.

  I seen albinos darker than him, says the guy. Goes back to his friends.

  See what we made this life about, son? We made hard fact and harsh consequence of what's not important. Like you and I being strangers in their territory, even though we black the same and barred from the same establishments, beaten by the same white cops, found guilty by the same white prejudiced jury, jailed by the same white judge — and what these niggers do? Why, they check us out like Southern highway patrolmen out to bust us up, even kill us. For being the exact same color in exact same situation as them?

  Another man comes over, huge he is. Hey, I say.

  Hey, big guy says back. Your boy the palest goddamn nigger we ever seen. Then turns to Mark — spins, actually.

  Say something, bitch.

  Before I can intervene, Mark says, I'm hoping my father and I are not going to get hurt because we got different skin coloring and got raised in different countries. We're still father and son. Doesn't seem fair it's upsetting you.

  The man stares. Glances back at his buddies. Back at Mark he says, tell me something about where you come from, white bitch.

  So we are near in that place of no going back. Got my gun in the car.

  He says to my son, make one mistake and you and this homo daddy of yours goin get hurt.

  Mark says, my mother is a half-caste Maori — that's a race of brown-skinned people, the natives of a country called New Zealand. My mother fell in love with this man in the Second World War. I'm the result of that love. Between a brown woman and a black man.

  My son shows guts. He says: Maoris are a ferocious warrior class, who used to cook and eat their enemies. They kept slaves. Like Negroes were slaves. But my mother's ancestors ate their slaves.

  Dude doesn't know what hit him.

  If you like, I'll do a Maori war dance right out on that floor. Haka we call it. You want to see it?

  You disrespecting me I'll kill you, fucker.

  I realize the band has quieted to background, instrumental music. So can be heard my boy telling this bullying fucker back, just trying to answer your question, friend.

  Back the big man goes to his buddies.

  You got them confused, I say.

  They going to shoot us?

  Not in here. Anyway,
what we done to them? It a crime to exist, for your skin to be paler than theirs? Guess you light up like a Christmas tree wrong time of year in their eyes.

  If I was a real white, would they dare?

  Just then it is announced, Big Boy just about here. Like the Saviour is coming. I smile at my son, till the antagonist comes back.

  You just a Klan boy acting English, he says to Mark.

  If I'm Klan then I'm calling the cops. Get you charged with threatening.

  This is my son saying this, the naive boy from a whole nation of them.

  Say what?

  You heard. If I'm white then I'm calling the cops to be on the side of one of their own.

  I get to my feet, aware this could blow right now. My son follows suit.

  We leaving now, I tell him. With our heads held high.

  My father is angry as we drive back to his county.

  When whites oppress us, he says, every nigger accepts it like God's decree. See one of their own who's not dark enough and they want to hurt him. In every town and city it's black on black and still we don't get it that we been turned against ourselves. Ain't no one talking revenge against the ones who been hurting us for centuries.

  That's the ultimate act of destroying a people, pitting us against each other. You still want to live here, son?

  Had my moments of doubt, I answer. Tell him how seeing the musical talent has me ready to give up on my dream of being a professional musician.

  Listen, don't be worried, he says. It's going to take time to catch up on the influences we grew up with.

  He starts demonstrating Big Boy Shand's singing style as the Southern night throws flying insects against our screen, and nigger menace stalks my mind.

  CHAPTER FIFTY

  THE FRAMED DEGREE ON THE wall, declaring graduation Bachelor of Laws with honours at Canterbury University in 1953, was like some proclamation of the man's higher status to Henry Takahe. The floor to ceiling law books on two walls, several paintings, a piece of metal and stone sculpture, wide desk that made definitive separation between lawyer and client. The ceramic pen holder, leather-cornered ink blotter, a paperweight of a bronze bull, another of cut glass weighing open a thick legal file. Framed photographs of his two rather pretty daughters, two fine-looking sons, in a way more approachable than the man himself. Proud sire of a brood of four who had — he'd tell each client as if in intimacy — all graduated, two in law, another in commerce, the fourth in accounting. James, Sarah, Jonathan, Annabel.