Witi Ihimaera - Bulibasha

Two hours after we had begun, Uncle Hone gave a nod to Benjamin and the engine was switched off — phut … phut … fart .

‘Kua pai?’ he asked. It was time for breakfast.

‘Kua pai,’ everybody agreed.

The shearers downed their handpieces, taking a breather, having a smoke. The sweepers swept the board tidy. The last fleece was thrown on the table for my aunts to skirt, class, fold and place into holding bins. David and Benjamin cranked the top onto the wool press. Aided by Peewee and Mackie, I took the opportunity to fill the pens tight with sheep. Peewee and Mackie were doing pretty good. I had said I’d give them ten shillings each a week from my pay. Glory, eyes clinched in concentration, was being absolutely impeccable with the dags.

My father picked her up. ‘Come on, babe.’

However, as we approached the cookhouse — ‘Uh oh,’ Uncle Hone sighed.

A huge commotion was coming from the kitchen.

‘Come on, girls, kia tere! The engine over at the shed has gone off. Oh my giddy aunt, Willie ! Where’s the hot water for the cocoa? You boiled the potatoes in it? What you want to do that for!’

Aunt Molly was on the warpath. Bangs, crashes, shrieks and foul imprecations issued from the kitchen. She looked out the door and saw Uncle Hone and the rest of us standing there. Arms akimbo she roared, ‘Hone? Hone Mahana, you just get your big black arse over here, you bastard!’

Although church-going like the rest of us, Aunt Molly had never been able to stop swearing. She did her repentance every First Sunday.

Poor Uncle Hone. He trotted over to Auntie Molly as meekly as a lamb and went into the kitchen.

‘What seems to be the trouble, Aunt Molly?’

Aunt Molly’s voice issued from the depths of the kitchen. ‘Don’t think you can sweet talk me, you bastard! You told me I would have a good kitchen this time and —’

Clang as something was thrown against the wall.

‘I find the same fucken place as last year. Didn’t you talk to Mister High and Mighty Williamson about it? Not only that —’

Crash of something on the ceiling.

‘How am I going to feed all you buggers when there’s only four hooks to hang the pots from! Then there’s the little matter of the stream —’

Splat as something, probably Uncle Hone, was spilled onto the floor.

‘The water is too fucken far away, the safe is broken and there’s not enough air in here for even one person, let alone my girls and my boy Willie. What the hell do you expect me to do! I can’t work miracles, you know, only God can do that and even He would have a hard time in this —’

Smash as something was booted by her foot.

‘Place. What do you think I am Hone? Eh, you tell me that! You tell me —’

We waited outside while Uncle Hone tried to pacify Auntie Molly as best he could. She was worth her weight in gold. Many a time Mahana One, Two and Three had tried to capture her, but her loyalty to Mahana Four was legendary. Not even Grandfather had been able to persuade her to come over to the top gang.

‘I’m sorry, auntie,’ Uncle Hone began. ‘I don’t know how you put up with us, year in and year out. Goodness knows we can’t manage without you.’ Grease, grease, Uncle. ‘All we ask is that you do your best, Auntie Molly, that’s all. And if the food is not up to scratch, even the crumbs off your table are better than a big kai at Mahana One, Two or Three.’

Auntie Molly began to sniff. Uncle Hone edged around the doorway and beckoned us to hurry up and come in. As we did so, we patted her on the shoulder –

‘Never mind, Auntie.’

‘We love you, Auntie Molly.’

To one side, Aunt Esther was waiting, and Faith and Hope were grinning with pride. So was Willie. The cookhouse may have just been a one-roomed tin shack with a long table down the middle but, despite her fulminations, Aunt Molly had organised the most splendid breakfast ever — porridge, sausages, bacon and eggs, Maori bread straight out of the oven, cocoa and cordial.

That was always the way with Aunt Molly. She loved us so much that nothing she did was ever good enough.

We sat down to breakfast — and could we eat? Could we what! And as we ate, the bantering and stories began again, arising easily out of the camaraderie, as if any silence had to be filled in. Uncle Hone started to reminisce about how beautiful Grandmother Ramona had been as a young girl. As he was talking I began to revise my image of her — young boys don’t go around thinking about their grandmothers as sex symbols. She must have been some looker to have two men fight over her.

‘She’s where I get my looks from,’ Aunt Ruth said, striking a pose.

‘Gee, sis,’ Uncle Hone answered from the head of the table, ‘our mum and dad made you on a bad day.’

‘Huh,’ Aunt Ruth retorted. ‘At least they made me during the day,’ referring to her fair complexion, ‘rather than at midnight!’

Everybody laughed. Then Uncle Hone began to tell how the great conflict between Rupeni Poata’s family and the House of Mahana began.

‘Never underestimate Rupeni Poata,’ he said, picking up a fork and waving it at us in warning. ‘He is a formidable opponent and his family have the advantage of his excellent training, just as ours has from our father.’

‘Ka tika,’ Aunt Ruth nodded. ‘You may think that as a young man Bulibasha had the greater mana, but Rupeni Poata was his equal. They had known each other before Dad took Grandmother Ramona from Rupeni and had been good friends.’

Friends?

‘It’s true,’ Uncle Hone confirmed. ‘Not only that, but in those days Rupeni Poata’s achievements as a sportsman were as good as our father’s.’

The older ones nodded sagely. ‘They were twins on the sportsfield. If Grandfather won —’

‘Rupeni was second,’ Uncle Hone said. ‘If Rupeni won —’

‘Grandfather was second,’ Aunt Ruth continued. Whenever they were racing, boxing or wrestling, people took bets on who would win. Some sports our father excelled in —’

‘Like swimming and sprints,’ Uncle Hone continued, ‘but there were other sports that Rupeni excelled in. Although he was smaller and shorter than our father, he had great reserves of power. His upper arms, for instance, were much more developed. This gave him the advantage in wrestling or in shot put or javelin.’

‘In field games too,’ Aunt Ruth said, ‘they were eager competitors. In rugby, our father played in the forwards —’

‘Rupeni was a halfback,’ Uncle Hone continued.

‘Our father played centre in hockey,’ Aunt Ruth said.

‘Rupeni was a winger,’ Uncle Hone added.

‘They were always against each other in the games between Hukareka and Waituhi,’ Aunt Ruth continued. ‘Luckily, the representative games weren’t competitive, so sometimes they found themselves on the same side, and they were friends —’

Uncle Hone nodded. ‘It is important to remember this,’ he said, ‘because our father bore Rupeni no ill.’

‘Rupeni Poata gained as much fame for his sporting prowess,’ Aunt Ruth underlined, ‘as our father did. Our father had no other peer than Rupeni. His house in Hukareka is likely filled with as many trophies as our homestead at Waituhi.’

There were murmurs of doubt that this could possibly be so.

‘However, everything changed between them when Dad took Grandmother Ramona from Rupeni,’ Uncle Hone said. ‘Although both of them wrote to Rupeni in Europe seeking to mend any ill feeling, there was no reply. They waited for Rupeni Poata and the boys who had gone to the war to return.’ There was a pause. Uncle Hone looked up at the clock. Starting time was in a quarter of an hour. ‘What do you think, sis?’ he asked Aunt Ruth.