Huia Short Stories 11

by Неизвестный

  Outside Tāne’s house the grass is long enough to feed a cow for a year. Under a rock in the backyard, Tāne finds the key and opens the door. Inside it stinks of rotten food, sweat and dirt. There’s rubbish everywhere. He thinks of the house he burgled, how clean and nice it smelled. Not like this place. He sees cockroaches scuttling over dirty plates in the kitchen sink.

  Hemi stands at the door and says, ‘Come on bro. Grab what you need and let’s get out of here.’

  Some bits and pieces in a plastic bag and they’re gone.

  Chapter Three

  Hemi doesn’t talk much, which is fine. Tāne looks out the window as they drive along the motorway. There’s market gardens and green paddocks. And further on as they leave the city, there are lambs and calves. So many animals and they’re all eating, which, even though it’s only grass, makes the boy realise how hungry he is.

  When they stop at a café, the smell of food makes his stomach rumble.

  ‘Don’t hold back,’ says Hemi. ‘I’m watching my weight, but you go for it.’

  Tāne takes him at his word, but after the third steak pie, a large piece of chocolate cake and a milkshake, Hemi asks, ‘You sure you haven’t got worms, boy? I’ll have to get a loan from the bank, the rate you’re eating.’

  As soon as they’re on the road again, Hemi puts on a tape with someone called Elvis playing a guitar and singing, and although it’s music he hasn’t heard before, from the 1960s, it’s got a good beat. With the sound of ‘Blue Hawaii’ hushing him, Tāne falls asleep.

  Hemi is full of interesting stories and facts, and the boy learns more from him in an afternoon than from years of going to school.

  ‘What will I be doing on the boat?’ he asks.

  ‘Everything,’ says Hemi and laughs. ‘Nothing like a bit of hard work and experience to toughen a man up. That’s what my old man used to say and he wasn’t far wrong.’

  Tāne looks at the gnarly hands gripping the steering wheel and wonders what sort of hard work he’s talking about.

  They come to the coast and the road winds round and round, following the edge of the sea and small bays with white sandy beaches. Pōhutukawa covered in red flowers cling to the sides of cliffs and rocky outcrops, their shallow-rooted fingers probing niches and crannies to gain a hold. At times, growing on either side, they form a tunnel.

  Hemi sweeps around the corners and then they’re up and over a big hill and down the other side, where the town of Coromandel lies waiting. It’s just a main street with shops on either side, but before Tāne can get a proper look they’re pulling up outside a green-painted house with flower gardens on either side of the drive.

  Hemi looks embarrassed. ‘Not mine. The wife’s,’ he mutters. ‘She does the flowers, I do the vege garden. That’s out the back and you can see it tomorrow.’

  He meets Hemi’s wife, Carol, who’s short and plump with bright red hair. She shows him where he’ll be staying, a small room, separate from the house, but it has its own bathroom and smells of new paint.

  ‘You can decorate it how you like,’ Carol says, ‘but you have to make your bed and keep it neat and clean.’

  She leaves him to settle in, and when he goes to the house a quarter of an hour later, they are waiting for him. There’s a roast dinner – beef with gravy, potatoes, kūmara and broccoli – and he eats it all. Carol has made an apple pie with cream and ice cream, his favourite, and he has two helpings.

  Tāne is so full he wonders if he’ll ever be able to move, but then Hemi says, ‘Got an early start tomorrow morning. I’ll wake you about four a.m. so be ready to go. The gear you’ll need is in the cupboard in your room; put it all on even if you think you won’t need it. It’s cold at sea and you can always take it off when you get hot.’

  Tāne goes to his room and opens the cupboard. There are socks, boots, heavy woollen trousers, a shirt and a yellow oilskin that comes down to his knees. There’s also a red Swanndri, a knitted hat and leather gloves. He looks at the pile of clothes and thinks it will take him from now until four a.m. to put it all on.

  He doesn’t sleep well, partly because he’s excited about the next day, and partly because he doesn’t want to keep Hemi waiting when he comes to pick him up. At three o’clock he’s wide awake. He gets up, showers and gets dressed. It takes half an hour to put everything on, and at the end of it he’s hot and sweaty and wants another shower.

  There’s a knock on the door and Hemi’s standing there, smiling. He looks Tāne up and down, trying not to laugh, and says, ‘Ka pai, Tāne. Let’s go.’

  Out to the van and it’s dark and raining. ‘We’ll have breakfast later,’ says Hemi. ‘Think you can last?’

  They drive through the streets, and Tāne thinks they could be the only ones left in the world. There are no lights and no people, just a ribbon of wet, slick road that winds down to the wharf. The barge is there, lit up like a Christmas tree with men busy tying ropes and stacking canvas sacks in neat piles on the deck.

  ‘There she is. The Aranui. My beauty, twenty-seven metres of her. Bought and paid for,’ Hemi says, and there’s pride in his voice.

  They go on board and Tāne is introduced to Mick, Hector and Jerry. When they shake his hand, he notices that their hands are like Hemi’s; rough, with thick yellow nails and skin hard as an elephant’s hide.

  Beneath his feet, the engines throb, the ropes are cast off and they gently move out past the wharf into the harbour. Small boats, launches and dinghies are tied up to buoys, but Hemi skilfully manoeuvres around them and soon the Aranui is making her way out to sea. It’s not rough and the boat chugs along, leaving a wake of white foam.

  Dawn unfolds and the lights on the barge are turned off. Hector points out a pod of dolphins swimming alongside like grey torpedoes. Seagulls swoop and squawk overhead. Gannets fold their wings and dive, resurfacing moments later with silver fish snaffled in their beaks.

  On the trip out, Tāne learns to wind the thick ropes in perfect coils and stack the large hessian sacks in piles of ten, separated by a piece of plywood to keep them flat. He enjoys the work and time flies past. Jerry pats him on the shoulder and says, ‘Good job,’ and Tāne feels his face go hot. He can’t remember when someone last told him he’d done something well.

  The boat slows and then stops. In the water, strings of large black buoys gently bob up and down. It’s quiet, peaceful, until the sound of the radio in the wheelhouse, tuned into Golden Oldies and at full volume, fills the air. It’s Elvis Presley singing ‘Blue Suede Shoes’ then ‘Jailhouse Rock’. Until he’d met Hemi, Tāne had never heard of Elvis, but he quickly learns the long-dead icon is a favourite with the crew.

  ‘Used to eat fried bacon with peanut butter and banana sandwiches,’ says Mick. ‘No wonder the poor bastard died when he did.’

  At the mention of food, Tāne’s belly rumbles and he wonders when they’ll get to eat. Reading his mind, Mick says, ‘No breakfast for a while yet, boy. Not until the work’s done, then we’ll have a nice cuppa tea.’ He winks and Tāne hopes that he’ll get more than a cup of tea. Right now he could eat a horse.

  Once the music is turned up, it’s like a switch has been flicked and the barge turns into a fully functioning factory. As the mussel lines are lifted from the water by a large winch, Jerry feeds them into a machine that strips the mussels off the ropes they’ve been growing on for eighteen months. As they come off the conveyor belt, Hector bags them. It’s heavy work, and an overhead crane is used as each bag weighs about a thousand kilograms and they have to be stacked neatly on the barge’s deck.

  Tāne washes down and scrubs the buoys, which are almost as big as him and awkward to manoeuvre. Once the mussels are removed, he coils the barren ropes, crusty with saltwater and difficult to bend with crustaceans and barnacles clinging to them. He scrapes them off with a sharp knife, making them ready for the next time they’re needed. His hands and fingers, cut by sharp bits of shell despite the gloves, sting from the saltwater.

  Time flies
by, and suddenly Tāne realises he has to use the bathroom. It’s urgent, but no one has mentioned the word ‘toilet’ or ‘lavatory’ since he came on board. When he asks, Jerry tells him, ‘No dunny on this barge, mate. Just go over to the other side of the boat and piss there. She’ll be right.’

  By now he’s desperate and doesn’t care who sees him. He races over, braces himself and begins to pee. The relief is wonderful, until there’s a gust of wind and a spray of urine splatters him. He hears the yelps of laughter, knows he’s been had and thanks God he’s wearing an oilskin. Hemi is laughing with the rest of them and calls out, ‘Lesson number one: never piss or spit into the wind, boy. Oh, and the head – the dunny – is that way,’ and he points to the back of the barge where a small cabin stands isolated.

  About nine o’clock, work stops and everyone piles into the galley where breakfast is waiting. Mick is the unofficial chef and he’s been busy cooking sausages, bacon, eggs, tomatoes and toast. A shiny metal teapot you can see your reflection in sits off to one side, surrounded by enormous mugs with the names of the crew on them.

  ‘No fancy coffee on this barge,’ says Hemi. ‘It’s tea or nothing.’

  The men sit down and Tāne loads up his plate. The first lot doesn’t even hit the sides and he’s back for more. No one’s talking; they’ve gone quiet and are all looking at him.

  ‘Told ya he could eat,’ says Hemi.

  ‘Kid’s got hollow legs,’ says Hector. ‘Never seen anyone enjoy Mick’s cooking so much.’

  Jerry pours the tea and Tāne has milk and three sugars. It tastes wonderful and he doesn’t know why he’s never drunk tea before.

  Afterwards he gets to wash the dishes, stack them away in the cabinet above the sink and wipe down the table. Then it’s back on deck and more cleaning and coiling of ropes and making sure the buoys are stacked ready for the next drop.

  More than sixty bags are filled by midday, neatly packed onto the deck. It’s time to go, but before Aranui casts off, Hector gives Tāne a fishing rod, shows him how to bait a hook and throw a line over the side. The slurry from the mussels has brought schools of snapper, and their silver shadows glint through the water. In seconds there’s a tug, and the rod bends, almost touching the sea.

  ‘Got a big one,’ says Jerry, and the men crowd around, waiting to see what’s going to surface.

  ‘Beginner’s luck,’ says Hemi as the line screams out, and Tāne hangs on as though his hands are glued to the reel and his life depends on it. Jerry reaches over and tightens the drag and the boy reels the fish in, hoping the line doesn’t snap. The muscles in his arms burn, his legs and back ache, but he ignores the discomfort and winds. Slowly the line comes up and with it the fish. It’s huge, and when they weigh it later, it’s 12 kilograms. ‘A real whopper,’ says Hemi. ‘We’ll have it for dinner tonight. Fish and chips.’

  A photo is taken with Mick’s instant camera and pinned to the wall in the galley. Over the weeks and months to come, Tāne will look at it a hundred times, and the thrill of that first catch never leaves him.

  By early afternoon, the barge is back at the wharf, the mussels unloaded and on their way to the distributor. Aranui is scrubbed from bow to stern, the engine cleaned, oiled and checked, and all gear stowed in the aft cabin. Tāne is exhausted, and even the thought of dinner and fish and chips leaves him unmoved. Hemi drives home and just before they get there, reaches over and pats the boy on the shoulder. ‘Good work today. You did okay.’

  Tāne is too tired to reply, but inside, a part of him that had been lost for a long time comes out of hiding and smiles.

  He eats his fish and chips that night but almost falls asleep at the table. When he goes to bed immediately afterwards, he’s asleep before his head hits the pillow.

  The next thing he knows it’s three thirty a.m. and time to get up. Tāne looks at the bed and finds he hasn’t moved all night, and it’s just a case of pulling up the blankets and smoothing them flat.

  Like the day before, it’s raining, but this time the wind is blowing and the waves blow over the bow of the Aranui as she ploughs her way out to sea.

  ‘Do you get seasick?’ asks Hemi. The boy shakes his head, ignorant of whether he does or not.

  The barge drops anchor and work begins, but the sea is so choppy water slops over the bow and there’s a rocking motion that is sometimes side to side and sometimes up and down. Tāne finds he has good sea legs and the peculiar motion doesn’t bother him. At breakfast he eats quickly and the rest of the crew watch in case he goes green and makes a run for the side. But he doesn’t, and there’s silent agreement among them: he’s worth keeping.

  Jerry’s five-year-old daughter is having a birthday party at the weekend and Hector is going to Auckland to visit his whānau in Manurewa. Mick’s wife is pregnant; he’s thinking of buying a new house, and on Saturday he and his wife are going house­ hunting. ‘You got any family?’ Jerry asks.

  Tāne thinks about his old man and the beatings whenever he came home. He thinks about his mother, stoned on P day and night, no food in the cupboards, and having to look after his little brothers and sister. He hangs his head, and the food he’s just eaten feels like a ball in his stomach. ‘Nah, not really,’ he says, and out of nowhere his throat closes over and tears blur his vision. He tries to brush them away but the more he tries, the worse it gets. They run down his face and he tastes the saltiness of them on his tongue.

  There’s an embarrassed silence, then Hemi hands him a handkerchief, tattered but clean. ‘Bloody stupid question to ask the boy.’ He glares at Jerry. ‘You’re one of our family now boy, so all that’s in the past. Now come on and clear the table. Time’s wasting and we’ve got mussels to harvest!’

  As they leave the galley, the men pat Tāne on the back.

  ‘Sorry mate,’ says Jerry. ‘I didn’t realise things were that bad.’

  ‘One of us now,’ says Hector.

  Mick just pats him and points to the tatty handkerchief Tāne’s still clutching. ‘I’d get rid of that before you get plague,’ he says. And the savage moments of remembrance and the past become shadows; memories without substance.

  A Picnic with the Bears

  K-T Harrison

  The bacon bones I’d bought from the supermarket on Friday, for two dollars a packet, simmered on the stove while Sammy and me went to buy some veggies. The vegetable stand on Portage Road sold seconds; they would add flavour and nutrients to the broth. Cars passed us by as we walked hand in hand along the road. Some had whole families in them, with a happy looking mum and dad in the front and smiley-faced children strapped in their safety seats in the back. In others, couples chatted to one another; some cars only held the driver. However many people the cars held, they were all on their way to somewhere. Perhaps they were only going home, but all of them appeared to be enjoying their journeys.

  For five dollars, I bought a 500g bag of misshapen carrots, a 500g bag of withered parsnips, some deformed onions, and a kilo of munted runner beans. I’d planned to add all these to the meat from the bacon bones. Carefully measured out rice, lentils and pearl barley would add bulk. With salt to taste, we’d have a delicious, wholesome and nutritious soup for seven dollars. The soup would be enough to last us for the next three days, until the family benefit payment on Tuesday. From out of the help-yourself bin, I chose a bag of spotted apples. With the spots cut out and then washed, peeled and stewed, they’d make a nice addition to the Weet-bix Sammy had some mornings.

  ‘Hungry Sam?’

  ‘Mmm.’

  I scraped the bitter skin off a carrot. When I had finished scraping all the bitterness away, I handed it to Sammy ‘Here you are, Sam, have this now and when we get back we’ll finish making the soup. Then I’ll make some bread and we’ll have a yummy dinner. Okay?’

  He nodded because his mouth was full of chewed-up carrot. I slung the canvas strap of my backpack over my shoulder and reached Sammy’s hand. He changed the carrot to his left hand and slipped the other into
mine.

  He squeezed four times, Do you love me? I squeezed back three, Yes I do. Two more from him, How much? We squeezed together. Tighter and tighter, and we never let go. Tighter and tighter, never letting go. That’s how much. And that’s how we walked along the road towards the house we lived in.

  Earlier, I’d spotted some pūhā growing beneath a hedge. I picked it. It filled the plastic bag I carried. I would cook this as soon as we got back. Maybe we would go to the beach by bus on Sunday, and maybe we’d get some mussels. I’d make each of us a sandwich and maybe we’d have a picnic. We’d take cordial to drink. We’d stay at the beach all day and then come back on the last bus. We would have a good day. Then, when we got back, I would steam the mussels and mix them with the pūhā to make toroī.

  A car was parked in our driveway.

  I breathed in the smoky bacon air that drifted to the door as I opened it. I swallowed the saliva that trickled into my mouth. I thought hard not to be hungry, but the baby inside me controlled the thinking in the hungry part of my brain. Lionel was there and two of his mates were with him. They sat at the table. The pot of bones was in the centre. The three of them tore at the flesh and ripped it off the bones with their teeth, then they sucked at those bones and licked their greasy fingers. Bacon juice and grease ran out of their bulging mouths and soaked into their already stained tee-shirts, adding more stains to the rest of the bits of filth on them. The pot was empty. Only the water remained.

  ‘The f… you staring at Mrs and where the f… you been? What the f…s this shit. A man wants a f…en feed when he gets home, can’t a man bring his mates home to a decent f…en feed. F…en dog bones. Think I’m a f…en dog ay bitch? I’ll show you f…en dog.’ He turned to Sammy. ‘F… off you little c…, get that little c… out of my face before I arsehole him into next f…en month. Eat up boys.’