Witi Ihimaera - Bulibasha

‘Easy does it,’ Uncle Hone said. ‘Don’t get rattled, boys. We’re here to do a quality job.’

The judge on our stage nodded and made a note.

An instruction came over the loudspeaker: ‘ Change judges .’

The judge from Stage 1 went to Stage 2. The judge from Stage 2 went to Stage 3. The judge from Stage 3 went over to Stage 1. The audience loved the fairness which allowed the judges to get a good overview of the work of all the shearing gangs.

Aunt Ruth and Haromi had begun sweeping in and around each shearer’s sheep.

‘Dags away!’ Aunt Ruth yelled. She pushed the dags over to Glory.

‘Go for it, Glory!’ one of her fans yelled.

Haromi was waiting for Uncle Matiu to finish his sheep. She flicked with her broom at the falling wool — face wool to one side, stomach and underside wool somewhere else. She put aside her broom and started to guide the fleece gently to one side, clearing it as Uncle Matiu shifted the sheep on to its back.

Along came the fleecos, Mum and Miriam, to take the fleeces to Aunt Sephora and Aunt Kate on the table. Oh no, now Haromi had decided to help them. Pulling the fleece clear. Bundling it up in her arms. Then a huge throw like a net and — perfect. The fleece glittered as it unfolded, seemed to pause on the air before falling squarely on the table. No wonder. Haromi had seen the cameras coming to film the action on our board.

‘Talk about lucky!’ Aunt Ruth laughed, hands on hips, forgetting where we were.

‘If you’ve got it, flaunt it,’ Haromi yawned.

They heard the laughter from the stadium and blanched.

‘Oh shi-ucks,’ Haromi said, making it worse. She did a little curtsy to the judge and the crowd.

The Poatas were neck and neck with the Gregsons on their fourth sheep. The crowd roared again as five Poata men on Stage 1 and five Gregson men on Stage 3 went into their pens together, dragging out their fifth sheep. ‘Tar!’ a Gregson shearer cried. Our shearers were just starting the fourth sheep. I took the chance to say to Peewee and Mackie, ‘Thanks, guys. Next season you’re both on the payroll.’ They gasped and reddened. Being on the payroll was even better than coming down to the Golden Fleece. They gulped and shook each other by the hand.

There was a clatter of laughter from the crowd. One of the Gregson shearers, when turning his sheep, had knocked one of the fleecos off the stand! What a hardcase.

‘Never mind about what’s happening over there,’ Uncle Hone said. ‘Let’s get on with our own job.’

‘We’ve got to increase the pace!’ Uncle Matiu said again.

‘Don’t panic,’ Uncle Hone answered. ‘Did I ever tell you about the tortoise and the hare?’

‘ Change judges .’

The shearers on Stage 1 and Stage 3 were settling into their sixth, seventh and eighth sheep, and into their rhythm. Caesar Poata was fluid as oil, shearing like a dream. Uh-oh, his brother Alexander was stopping and changing his blades — they were making too many cuts, the blood spurting from the whiteness of the shorn sheep.

‘Tar!’

Our own Mahana shearers were steady and, in their steadiness, commanded respect. I felt so proud of my dad, holding the handpiece as if he had been born with it. Stroke after stroke, surely and calmly, the sheep’s fleece peeled magically away. And here was Haromi again, pulling the fleece away from Dad’s sheep. Gathering it in her arms. The suspense was awful.

‘You must be in love,’ Aunt Ruth said as yet another perfect fleece was cast.

‘Well, someone is,’ Aunt Kate interrupted. She nodded to where Miriam was waiting for Pani to finish shearing his ninth sheep. They had eyes only for each other and didn’t give a tuppenny piece whether we won or lost. Meantime, peering at the dags and getting every piece of wool that she could from her collection was Glory. The camera team shone a bright light in her direction –

‘Go away,’ she said.

The cameraman poked his camera right into her face, so she got a dag and threw it at him. The stadium ricocheted with laughter.

‘I’m doing my job,’ Glory said, ‘and it has to be the best job I’ve ever done.’

‘You tell him, Glory!’

I realised that one of the reasons why the crowd always yelled out to us was because we talked all the time we were working. Not just about shearing either, but about love, life and the whole damn universe. The trouble was that we forgot the audience was there and let out the most awful secrets.

‘ Change judges !’

‘Sheepo!’ Aunt Sephora was calling. Like a hare, Peewee tore away. He jumped into the sacking to press down the neck pieces and side pieces. Mackie was helping David and Benjamin pack the fleeces into the press.

‘Hang on a minute,’ Aunt Sephora called. She went toward our pressmen. The judge followed her. ‘This fleece is all right,’ she said to Benjamin, ‘but all right is still not good enough. Leave it aside for the second-class bales.’

‘Good on you, Sephora!’ someone called, approvingly.

The judge paused to take in Aunt’s decision and scribbled something in his book.

‘ Change judges !’

The competition was coming to the home straight. Goodness, we’d only just started! The Gregsons were ahead with only two sheep to go, and the Poatas were in second place with three sheep to go. We were trailing with five sheep apiece.

‘Steady does it,’ Uncle Hone kept reminding us. ‘The only competition that’s worth anything is with ourselves. As long as we better ourselves, I’ll be happy.’

Sweat was pouring down the shearers. The heat from the arc lights was stifling. Dark patches were appearing at Aunt Kate’s armpits.

‘Oh what the heck!’ Aunt Kate said. She opened up her overalls and flapped air in. How everybody laughed at that!

The Gregson and Poata shearers were quickening their pace. They were looking across from their stages and going blow for blow down one side of the sheep and then down the other. They didn’t bother to check us because we were so far behind. When shearers raced, something thrilling happened. The racing was like watching gunfighters — like Glenn Ford in The Fastest Gun Alive or Gary Cooper in High Noon . The race was a chance to say: ‘Okay, folks, this is how the top guns do it. Watch how we draw .’

Now the audience was clapping as the last of the Gregson shearers finished his sheep. They clapped again as the Poatas finished. Our shearers droned on.

‘Easy does it,’ Uncle Hone said.

The Gregsons and the Poatas finished classing their wool. Their pressmen had a mighty race — clank, clank, clank went the presses — and were in the last stages of baling their wool when our shearers came to an end. Then the Gregson head shearer raised his hand to indicate that they were finished. Applause came down from the stadium. Caesar Poata soon followed. His pressmen finished sewing their last bale. Up came Caesar Poata’s hand. More applause. Only a matter of minutes separated the Gregsons and the Poatas.

Uncle Matiu, meantime, was trembling in sheer frustration. He wanted Uncle Hone to cut corners. Uncle Hone always insisted that Mahana Four was never finished until we left the board the way we found it. So even though David and Benjamin had finished the baling, we still worked on, Aunt Sephora and the women cleaning up around them, and me and Peewee and Mackie unhooking the sacks and tidying up the work areas. We were four minutes behind the Gregsons and six minutes behind the Poatas. The stadium was absolutely silent. The moon was wan. We worked on.

Glory was the last to finish her job. Amused, Uncle Hone waited until she had nodded her head. Then he raised his hand too. In the gathering tumult, Glory did a little curtsy.