Witi Ihimaera - Bulibasha

Uncle Hone sighed.

‘Then,’ Uncle Matiu persisted, ‘having Glory on the dags will make a laughing stock of us, and —’

Uncle Hone had had enough. ‘No,’ he said. ‘The trouble, Matiu, is that you and father have never actually seen Mahana Four in action. You’ve both been too busy burying your heads in the sand to even see how good we are. Mahana Four is a good team, Matiu. We’re all used to each other’s ways. We know each other’s strengths and weaknesses. You’re just a ring-in for Mahana Four. I will not have you and Father upsetting my family like this. Things stay as they are. That is final.’

Way to go, Uncle Hone!

‘Well,’ Uncle Matiu shrugged. ‘Okay, bro, you’re the boss.’

He smiled sickly at us. ‘But I think we better all stay clear of Bulibasha for a while and let him think he’s had his way!’

He looked across at Grandfather and waved cheerily. How Grandfather wanted to interpret that was his business.

Even so, by the time our heat began we had seen enough of the other teams to know we didn’t look like being in the running at all. We also heard that Poata One had won their heat by a mile, outgunning the competition like Machine Gun Kelly’s gang. Although the news was expected it didn’t make us feel any happier. Nor, on a personal level, was I feeling happy either. Since that first kiss Poppy seemed to be avoiding me. Every time I looked at her she looked away. Then, just before we were ready to go on, she came up to me.

‘You’re a Mahana,’ she said. ‘I’m a Poata. We’re on opposite sides.’

The loudspeaker blared. ‘Heat Number Six —’

Six six ix ix nix ix.

‘On Stage 1 the Wilson gang from Hawke’s Bay; Stage 2 the Jelley gang from Southland, and Stage 3 the Mahana gang from Waituhi, Gisborne —’

Gisborne scorn forlorn orn orn or.

I gulped and clutched Glory’s hand. She looked up at me, puzzled. What was all the fuss?

The two other gangs came running out in their bright scarlet and blue mocker. They looked like silver people, smiling and bowing to the audience. We were still cowering in the wings. Aunt Sarah was right. We did look like hobos, even worse than Fred Astaire and Judy Garland singing ‘We’re Just a Couple of Swells’ from Easter Parade . The Vanderbilts would never have asked us out to tea.

‘Ah well,’ Uncle Hone said, ‘let’s say a prayer to make us feel better.’

And there we were, praying again, our heads bowed to the Lord. We didn’t realise that everyone in the stadium could see us. Had we known, do you think we would have done it?

Oh look. So it is true. They do pray.

‘Okay,’ Uncle Hone said, ‘let’s get it over with.’

When we shambled out, me holding Glory’s hand, we were unprepared for the warmth of our reception. We climbed on to the stage and did what we always do. Uncle gave his string belt a tug — and the stadium hummed with amusement.

‘Well I don’t want you people to get a good surprise,’ he said.

Then Aunt Ruth started putting her hair up into a scarf and Aunt Kate shuffled into her old slippers and said, ‘E hika, my toes are poking out.’

Again, laughter rolled around the audience.

Finally, Mum kissed Glory, who ran across the stage between everybody’s legs and sat on her box waiting for the dags to come her way. When people laughed, her face grew grim. She scowled and then poked out her tongue.

Peewee, Mackie and I went to the big pen ready for the race to get the obligatory twenty-five sheep into the shearers’ holding pens.

‘Are you guys ready?’ I asked. Peewee was taking huge gulps of air. ‘I’m counting on you both.’

They grinned.

The starter had his pistol pointed to the air. His voice reverberated across the stadium.

‘Are you ready?’

Ready ready eady eady dy dy.

‘Steady?’

Steady steady eady dy dy.

The pistol crack echoed in the air.

‘ Go !’

Well blow me down and tie me to a lamp post. Mahana Four actually won our heat.

Grandfather was sitting with Grandmother Ramona, Zebediah Whatu and Ihaka Mahana when the winners were announced, and he just about fell out of his seat. Nani Mini Tupara, sitting behind the men, laughed and laughed.

‘Ana! Take that!’

The victory was trumpeted in the newspapers. The publicists for the championships knew a good angle when they saw one. On the morning of the second day there was the mayor of Masterton patting a scowling Glory on the head:

Family of God makes semifinals.

On that second day, however, the news was not so good. The semifinalists were fast , and we were up against the Robinson gang from Northland, Horopura gang from Nelson and Christie gang from Auckland. To bolster our confidence Aunt Sarah presented us with our maroon sashes — she had rung home for them and had them sent down. We were appreciative, but –

‘No, Sarah,’ Uncle Hone said. ‘We still look like hobos. The only difference is that we now look like hobos with sashes on.’

Walking out on Stage 2 was a different experience from the day before. Amidst the applause individual voices were calling out –

‘Come on, Hone!’

‘Show them how to throw a fleece, Auntie Miriam!’

‘Attagirl, Glory!’

As if people knew us personally.

When we lost our semifinals heat to the Robinsons, who finished way ahead, the audience was disappointed. Grandfather was shaking his head. Our luck had run out.

But what do you know? Our marks for quality work took us to the front. Another photograph — Aunt Sarah managed to insinuate herself into this one of Mahana Four sitting on a wool bale — flashed across the Press Association wires:

Halleluiah, they’re in!

Golden Fleece fever hit Masterton. All the shearing gangs were feted, invited to functions and treated like royalty. We were always surprised to be stopped and congratulated. Glory was very popular and hated it. People thought she was just adorable and asked for her autograph. Aunt Molly didn’t escape the limelight either. Although she said she was ‘Just the cook’ she attracted the attention of a food journalist who asked her what she fed Mahana Four.

‘Oh, dumplings, watercress, boiled spuds, kamokamo —’

The article on Auntie Molly came out the next day and said that ‘Auntie Molly’s pièce de résistance is a bouillabaise of a Hungaro-Romanian flavour in which carefully moulded boules of flour enriched with natural spices are marinated with cress au naturel, potatoes à la Provence and a piquant tuber found only in exotic surroundings —’

‘I’m keeping my mouth shut from now on, ‘Auntie Molly said.

Grandfather was in his element, his pride puffing up his chest like a pouter pigeon’s. Wherever he and Grandmother Ramona went they commanded a respectful audience. Grandfather had not lost his misgivings, but he had been surprised at the efficiency and precision of Mahana Four. As far as the finals was concerned, though, he didn’t think we had a hope in Hades. Mahana Four was competing against the Gregson gang, the home team from Wairarapa — and, of course, Poata One, who were widely expected to win. Caesar Poata was the fastest shearer at the championship.

Grandfather’s obsession with the Poata shearing gang had increased during the few days we had been in Masterton. In some respects he seemed more intent on their losing than our winning. I was watching him when he attended the semifinal shear-off involving the Poata gang. I swear that Grandfather never moved a muscle, and yet he seemed to be sending down thunderbolts of psychic energy designed to cripple their shearers or set fire to their wool. The effort was burning him out, turning him into an empty husk. As the finals approached, Grandfather became more jittery. Zebediah Whatu and Ihaka Mahana tried to keep him calm, but the publicity was having an adverse effect on him. The more Mahana Four got the spotlight, the more he worried about the reaction when we lost.