Witi Ihimaera - Bulibasha

‘Ae.’

I waved to Mahana Four’s pressmen. David and Benjamin were the eighteen-year-old twin grandsons of Zebediah Whatu. I would become a pressman when I got to be their age; they would have moved on to being shearers. I saw Glory sitting close by Uncle Hone, two clapper boards in her hands. Peewee and Mackie, her male cousins, were glaring at her. There had been a fight to wrest the boards from her.

Glory gave me her look. Do something.

I walked over to Uncle Hone, who was on the top gun or ringer’s stand. He was dressed in the usual black woollen singlet, woollen pants tied at the waist with string and jute moccasins. Although he was big and fat, Uncle Hone was one of the best shearers in the family. His bulk gave him reserves that kept him going way after everybody else had called it quits. Uncle Hone had just finished sharpening the blades of his handpiece, the sparks arcing like fireworks from the grinding wheel. He was talking to Dad on the Number 2 stand. Dad, of course, was the champ , except that he pretended not to show it; out of respect for his elder brother, he always lagged one or two sheep behind. Sam Whatu, David and Benjamin’s father, was on the Number 3 stand, Pani on Number 4 stand, and on Number 5 was Uncle Albie, who was cutting out new moccasins and sewing them up.

‘Eh Albie!’ Aunt Kate called. ‘Sew up your fly while you’re at it and give Ruth some peace!’

‘I should be so lucky,’ Aunt Ruth muttered.

The two sweepers on the boards were my cousins Haromi and Frances. I was surprised to see Haromi because she was usually with Mahana One.

‘Morning, boy!’ Uncle Hone said. ‘I saw you talking to the shepherds. That’s what I like — a sheepo who knows how to do his job. I want the sheep to come in nice and steady. Not too slow. But don’t push us, all right? The sheep look like they’re pretty clean, so they’ll be sweet to shear, but that doesn’t mean we should increase the pace. Slow and steady does the job.’

‘Yes, Uncle.’

‘I don’t want my pen less than half empty, okay?’ he continued.

‘Nor mine,’ Dad said.

‘Nor mine,’ Uncle Albie said.

Uncle Hone laughed. ‘But mine gets filled before anyone else’s!’

Behind me, Glory coughed. Uncle took me to one side. ‘That sister of yours has been giving me the glad eye ever since I got here,’ he whispered.

‘She wants to be in charge of the dags.’

Peewee and Mackie jostled forward. ‘Glory’s only a girl,’ they complained. ‘She can’t work as fast as we can.’ The boys were punching each other out in an attempt to get in the front position.

‘What do you think?’ Uncle asked me.

I nodded at Glory. She was ready to murder. ‘Possession is nine-tenths of the law,’ I answered, referring to the clapper boards in her hands.

‘ And I got up,’ Glory said, ‘at three o’clock in the morning to get here before they did.’

Uncle laughed. He looked at the other boys. ‘Looks like you boys will have to help Simeon in the pens.’

I smiled at Glory. Satisfied? No, she kicked me in the legs. She mouthed a word — Pee-ay-why-ar-oh-ell-ell-

‘Does that mean that Glory’s on the payroll?’ I asked.

‘Hmmn, you tell her she’s on trial.’

Glory wasn’t having that on. She shook her head.

‘No trial,’ I continued.

Uncle hesitated.

‘In that case, everybody else’s dags will get swept away —’ I paused — ‘except yours.’

Uncle was trying not to laugh. ‘I call that blackmail,’ he said. ‘But —’ he turned to Glory, ‘it’s a deal, babe.’

Mr Williamson, the owner of the station and Amberleigh, arrived. With him was a young Pakeha boy of my age. One of the shepherds later told me his name was Geordie. He was the Williamsons’ youngest son, home on holiday from boarding school in Nelson. It was five minutes to six.

‘Good morning Bob,’ Uncle Hone greeted him. It was all right for Uncle Hone to use Mr Williamson’s first name, but the rest of us were not accorded the same privilege.

Mr Williamson nodded. He was a tall, austere man with a badly sunburnt appearance, as if he didn’t really belong in this climate. His skin was scaly, flaking off in huge yellow patches. He raised his hat to our women and then shook Aunt Sephora’s hand. As wool classer, she had responsibility for maintaining his reputation as a producer of wool of the very finest grade. She introduced to him the women under her charge — she had been doing this every year, and Mr Williamson still hadn’t remembered their names.

‘Well, gentlemen,’ Mr Williamson said, ‘and ladies, welcome to Williamson station again. We have always counted on Mahana Four for quality shearing and quality classing. When buyers look at my wool bales they know they will be of premier excellence. Your work has always secured us top price. I know that, as in the past, we will continue to have your sterling service.’

Murmurs. ‘Thank you, Mr Williamson.’

Uncle Hone nodded to Benjamin.

‘Excuse me, boss,’ Benjamin said as he went past Mr Williamson into the engine room.

Phut … phut … phut — with an explosion of blue smoke the machine started. The belt whined, accelerated, revolving the driveshaft to greater and greater speed.

‘Timata!’ Uncle Hone yelled.

The shearers walked swiftly into the pens and grabbed their first sheep of the day. They dragged them out and settled them within the curve of their legs. With one hand the shearers reached for their handpieces. With the other they pulled on the cord which would send them power.

Bzzzzz — the first cut. Right on six o’clock.

One of the reasons I liked the shearing was that it took me away from Grandfather. The work was just as hard and relentless as at the homestead but, for a small space of time, I escaped Grandfather’s daily subjection. I think this is how my parents, sisters and spinster aunts felt as well. We all commiserated with poor Aunt Miriam for being with him in Mahana One.

There was a second reason for liking the shearing, and that was that Mahana Four was a second family. For six months of the year the family was mine and I was theirs. I had always been theirs — even as a baby, watching from the wool and having my nappies changed by whoever was nearest.

‘E hara, Huria,’ aunts or uncles would say, ‘he tutae ano.’

As a toddler I became a runner for whoever needed me — the shearers, pressmen, wool classers and cook.

‘Get me an orange cordial, boy’, or:

‘Wipe my face for me, son, the sweat is in my eyes’, or:

‘Tell the sheepo to bring some more sheep into the pen.’

No doubt I made a thorough nuisance of myself running here and there through the legs of the shearers, among the brooms of the sweepers, and around the dresses of the wool classers. Nothing prepared you better for the shearing shed than being able to negotiate the minefield of activity without tripping anyone up.

Then I graduated to helping the sheepo keep the pens tightly full for the pressmen or fleecos –

‘Come and jump in the sacks, boy, and push the wool down.’

Finally I worked my way up to my first real job and seeing my name on the payroll — picking up the dags with the clapper boards. I was so keen to get at any sheep with a dirty bum! I waited until the sweepers separated the bum wool and dags, scooped them up and took them to my special place where I sorted through and salvaged as much wool from the dags as was possible. There was always a place and a price for any sort of wool.

From the dags I had descended into Hell by becoming the skivvy for Aunt Molly. That had been the worst job. Keeping the kitchen clean. Chopping wood — lots of wood — for once the fire was started it stayed on until the shearing was finished. Cutting the meat, carrying water, peeling potatoes, carrots and cabbage — phew. I had been first up in the morning and last to bed at nights. But now I was sheepo. And my sister Glory was on the payroll too. I felt proud that she had attained that status this season. She had earned her position in charge of the dags. From now until the time she decided to give up shearing, she was a paid member of Mahana Four. Her pay might be only ten shillings a week, but it was hers. There was no greater accolade.