Witi Ihimaera - Bulibasha

‘Brothers and sisters, the Lord was a shepherd and we are the sheep of His flock. Over all these years He has kept us in sickness and in health, in good times and bad times. Please say with me –

The Lord is my shepherd

I shall not want

He maketh me to lie down in green pastures

He leadeth me beside the still waters

He restoreth my soul …

Yea though I walk through the Valley of Death

I will fear not

For He is with me

His sword and His staff comfort me

And I will dwell in His house

For ever —’

Finally, Sunday service came to an end. Grandfather and Grandmother were making their farewells to the pastor and his wife. The rest of the family were milling around waiting for the movement order back to Waituhi. Aunt Sarah, who had lost her voice, was guarding Haromi from my clutches. Then Uncle Matiu coughed and, pointing to his watch, drew Grandfather’s attention to the time. Swiftly Grandfather looked up at us and nodded.

‘Okay,’ Dad said. ‘Me haere tatou.’

We dispersed to our cars.

The tar sealing lasted until we came to Makaraka and then, as usual, we were back in Maori country. My father could have fallen back from the cavalcade but kept his speed up.

‘Can you see them?’ Dad asked. He wasn’t referring to the cars in front; he was pointing to the road on the left that intersected ours.

‘No,’ I said.

The pace had quickened in front and, alerted by it, Mum nudged Dad.

‘Keep up, dear,’ she said. ‘We’re lagging behind.’

Dad nodded and accelerated. ‘Bulibasha’s putting his foot down,’ he muttered. The needle on the dial was steadily increasing from 27 miles per hour through 32 to 38 to — golly whizzikers, we were flying!

‘Just keep up, dear,’ Mum repeated. We wished she was driving; she had a certain touch that drove cars crazy.

‘I’m up as far as I can go,’ my father said. Indeed he seemed to be playing a dangerous game of touch and go with Uncle Ihaka’s back numberplate. ‘Father must have seen something —’

Sure enough, through the drifting dust to our left we caught a glimpse of another cavalcade approaching the T junction ahead. Not far beyond it was the red suspension bridge.

The Poata family from Hukareka. They were coming back from their church in Gisborne, returning home to Hukareka as we were to Waituhi. Kicking up a dust like clouds and flying through it like enemy aircraft.

Our mother said, ‘Hang on, darlings.’

The race to the bridge was on.

My heart was pounding fast. I tried to be Dad’s extra pair of eyes, looking through the dust for him and willing him to stay on the road and keep up. I imagined that I was pilot Gregory Peck’s sidekick in Twelve O’Clock High ; Greg had suddenly become blinded and Japanese kamikazes were diving out of the sun and I had to see for him. It was all up to me. We had to get to the T junction before they did, otherwise the Poatas would have the advantage on the approach to the bridge. It was going to be close –

Bang . The Pontiac hit the back of Uncle Ihaka’s Austin and ricocheted off.

‘Keep on the road, dear,’ Mum said. Stones and gravel were clanging and spraying the Pontiac.

‘I’m trying my best, Huria,’ Dad answered. ‘But the car needs new wheels and —’

‘We’re gonna get there first!’ Glory squealed.

Sure enough, we were almost at the T junction. We were in front by some ten precious yards and, ahead, Mohi was broadsiding into the stretch, then Uncles Matiu, Maaka, Ruka, Hone, Aperahama, Ihaka and –

Bang . The Pontiac broadsided into the straight as well, ricocheting off one of the Poata cars. I caught a glimpse of startled faces, a fist being shaken and grim expressions.

‘Well, after all, it’s an old car,’ Dad said of our Pontiac, ‘and the wheels need changing and —’

‘Just keep up, dear,’ Mum said.

A gap was developing between us and Uncle Ihaka. That was dangerous, because the Poatas could get in between and try to cut us out. If that happened, who knows what they would do to us and our mother?

And now the Poatas were coming up on the outside, trying to get ahead of us and, agony, they were gaining. With growing despair my sisters and I watched as one after another the grim faces of our enemy edged past us and in front of us. The first car, a Buick, had Rupeni Poata in it, as ugly as sin. The second was being driven by his eldest son, Caesar Poata, whose kids were flattening their faces against the windows at us. Then came the third car with Poppaea — or ‘The Brute’ as we called her — and her daughter the divine Poppy making cross-eyes at me. Ahead was the bridge.

‘Run them off the road, dear,’ Mum said. Run them off the road?

‘I don’t think I should do that, Mum,’ Dad said.

‘Yes you can,’ she answered.

The bridge was looming up fast. My heart was in my stomach.

Did I forget to tell you it was one way?

I closed my eyes. One of us had to give in, either us or the Poatas. I heard a squeal of brakes. I opened my eyes.

All the Poata cars were slewing into a skid. A little old lady in a Ford Prefect was coming their way and they were on the wrong side of the road.

Oh, thank you, Lord, thank you.

Even if ours was the last car, the Mahanas had got to the bridge first. I looked back. The Poatas were gesturing ineffectually at us. Poppy was raising her fist.

Eat our dust .

By the time we stopped at Patutahi my daydreams about Poppy had just about subsided. It didn’t matter that she was three inches taller than I was, skinnier than a rake and had freckles — or as we called it, bird shit on the face — Poppy was the girl of my dreams. Perhaps it was because she was unattainable, being from Hukareka, just as Rhonda Fleming — my favourite actress — was also unattainable, being older and living in Hollywood. Whatever the case, to me Poppy was as lovely as Rhonda Fleming who played Cleopatra in Serpent of the Nile and just as tempting. I would have laid all of Waituhi at Poppy’s feet had she not been from Hukareka.

Dad pulled the Pontiac into the petrol station and went off in search of Mr Jenkins. One of Dad’s responsibilities was to get the oil for all the lamps in the homestead.

Mum watched him go. Then, ‘Let’s get it over with,’ she said.

She gathered herself together, dusted herself off, checked her hat in the mirror and went into the general store. Having on her best Sunday clothes made her feel better when dealing with Miss Zelda and Miss Daisy.

Although my sisters and I liked nothing better than to dawdle in the general store, my mother’s exchanges with Miss Zelda, who took care of the business side of things, were always too brief.

‘I–I — I,’ Mum began to stutter.

‘Why, good afternoon, Mrs Mahana,’ Miss Zelda answered, ‘what a pleasant surprise! Daisy? Scott? Mrs Mahana has come to visit.’

Visit, huh?

‘I think I know why Mrs Mahana is here,’ Miss Daisy said to her sister. ‘To pay her account.’ She pointed to the huge tally board on which the names of families with overdue accounts were marked in red. ‘Well, Mrs Mahana, you can thank your lucky stars you’re not in the red.’

Being in the red was awful. It meant having to go in to discuss a further extension on your loan, often while other people were around. It was like grovelling.

My mother took her purse from her handbag. She looked at me.

‘This is all we can afford this week, Miss Zelda,’ I said.

Miss Zelda peered down at the coins, poking them around on the possibility that there might be a £1 note beneath. Sighing, she reached under the counter and pulled out a huge ledger book. My mother’s lips trembled.