Witi Ihimaera - Pounamu Pounamu

In the front of the house and to one side, is the tennis court. We used to play tennis lots until we got tired of mowing the court. We only had a cranky push mower, and there were already enough lawns to mow. We’re not rich.

Right in front is a big lawn. Mum used to grow flowers there until she finally decided that there were enough wild ones around to make the house beautiful. Everything grows wild now. The leaves from the trees fall in autumn. The grass grows wild beneath the trees. The flowers wither in winter. Fruit falls and remains to rot on the ground. And yet, everything is right somehow. The soil is nurtured by the fallen leaves and fruit, the grass tufts up to be eaten by the sheep and horses, and although the flowers die they come up again, the next year. There is some strange purpose here which does not need our help. We have beauty without cultivating it.

The lawn ends at a small stream which flows around the contours of the rise upon which the house stands. There is a footbridge over it and a path leading to the road where the mailbox stands.

Last summer, there were frogs in the stream.

To the right of the house, there is a small plantation which is always boggy because of the water from the stream. Where the ground is drier, a tall stand of pine trees grows. We used to drag sugar bags around with us and fill them with pine cones for the fire. One night, as we were watching from the back verandah, the moon came so low that it was suddenly caught by the leaves of two cabbage trees which were standing side by side, like two hands clasping at the moon. Georgina found a nest of baby stoats underneath the pine trees one day. We took them back to the house, but Dad made us return them before the mother stoat got wild with us. At the end of the pine trees, is the cow bail.

The shearing shed and yards are beyond the plantation. That’s where all the hard work is done: the shearing, docking, dipping, pressing wool, machinery repairs, creosoting the battens, carpentry … and the paint is blistering from the roof just as if it is sweating with the hard work too. There are four stands for the shearers and mostly Dad and his brothers shear our sheep. Dad’s a gun shearer! He has the number one stand. When it is the shearing time, we saddle the horses and go out mustering the sheep. Sometimes Mum comes too on Gypsy. When Hine was a baby, Mum used to wrap her in a blanket and swing her over her back. It is hard work mustering. The sheep are dumb. The dogs are too, and chase the sheep all over the place except to where they’re supposed to be shepherded. The biggest problem is getting the sheep across the river. The farm, you see, is divided in two by the river with the farmhouse and shearing shed on one side and the rest of the farm on the other. There is a narrow track joining the two parts and it descends steeply from the other side down to a swing bridge across the river, then rises steeply up to where the shearing shed is. Sometimes, when the sheep are really dumb, it takes a whole day to get them across the swing bridge. That’s when Mum comes down and Georgina too, to lend a hand. It really makes you sweat! So sometimes we have a swim in the river to cool off. But that’s not the end of it all, oh no. The sheep have to be put through the race at the yards next to the shearing shed. That’s where the ewes and hoggets and lambs are separated for the shearing. Then when the shearers come, Dad starts the old engine in the shed; it coughs into life and provides the power for the shearers’ handpieces. Shearing the sheep takes a long time. Mum, Georgina, my uncles’ wives and my girl cousins do all the fleeco work and sweep the board. I am the sheepo, and sometimes Hine helps me. My bigger boy cousins do the pressing because I’m not strong enough. Soon I will be! It is a good life.

When the shearing is finished and everybody leaves, it makes you feel a bit lonely. Not for long though, because there’s still a lot to do! The sheep have to be taken back across the river and the odds and ends tied up at the shed. Later the big trucks come to take away the bales of wool.

Sometimes, for a holiday, the whole family goes out scrub cutting. There is a lot of scrub on our farm and we use hooks and axes to cut it down. We stay in a small hut on the other side of the river. In the morning, Mum cooks breakfast, then we all hop on our horses and go to attack the scrub. Mum, Dad, Georgina and I cut the scrub. Hine piles it in heaps. Then Dad sets fire to it and the smoke billows thickly across the hills. At smoko time, Mum puts the billy on. It’s a lot of fun.

In the docking season, it is fun too. The tails of the lambs have to be cut off or else they get dags. When we were young, us kids used to trail behind Dad and as soon as the tails dropped off the lambs, we would grab them and grill them over an open fire, then scrape away the burnt wool and eat the tails. Neat, boy!

And always at night time, we would come to the farmhouse. It is very big for our small family. There are four bedrooms, a huge kitchen, a pantry, and a long sitting room with a big open fire. In winter, Mum and Dad bring their bed into the sitting room and sleep beside the fire. We have a lot of books including a whole set of encyclopaedias that a salesman sold us. We have Chinese Checkers too. No television though. But we’re so busy, I suppose we wouldn’t have time to look at television anyway. In winter, it is good to play in the sitting room while Mum and Dad are in bed. You can watch the fire leaping in the grate if you’re bored. The fire leaps and curls and crackles and sometimes it sizzles when the rain falls down the chimney.

Then, when Mum and Dad are tired and want a moe, they send us to bed. So we each take a lamp to our rooms and they make beautiful golden patterns on the wallpaper.

This place is where I, Hema Tipene, have lived all my years as a kid. It has been a happy time. Now that I am a man, I am sorry to leave those times behind.

He sighs, this boy, as he looks down upon the farm.

If it has to be, he thinks, it just has to be! Who knows? I might have better times now that I’m a man. Watch out, world!

Hema turns to look for the cows again, but suddenly he hears the back door of the house slamming shut. He looks down and an impish gleam lights his eyes. He sees a figure, her hair still in curlers, putting on her gumboots and shuffling down to the outhouse and shivering beneath her brunch coat. It is Georgina, the queen of the house, off to sit on her throne. And from where he is standing, Hema can see right inside! He chuckles to himself. He’ll fix her! Jeez, she looks ugly. If only her boyfriends could see her now. He waits and watches. Georgina opens the door, bends down to inspect the throne, then turns around, gives her behind a few wiggles, arranges herself comfortably on the seat, sighs and stares uninterestedly around her. As usual, she does not close the door, just sits there in all her radiant beauty. And Hema cups his hands to his mouth and calls:

‘I can seeeeeeee yoooouuuuu!’

And Georgina’s shriek of fright rends the air.

‘Who’s there! Who’s watching! Go away!’

She starts to call for her father. Then she sees Hema dancing and doubled up with laughter. He is thinking: perhaps she wet her pants!

‘Just wait till I get you, Hema Tipene!’ Georgina screams. ‘Just wait! I’m going to tell Dad that you’re spying on me!’

She lifts herself up carefully and grabs at the door to pull it closed. Her voice still booms out from behind it.

‘Don’t think you can get away with it either, you little bugger! I’ll get you when you get back! I’m going to tell Mum and Dad too, and Dad will give you a good hiding, you little shit.’

But Hema is too busy chortling to himself to listen. Serves her right. That’ll teach her! Ana!