Witi Ihimaera - Uncle's Story

‘You’ve already spoilt Amiria’s wedding. Let’s try not to spoil her going away, shall we?’

Dad glared and said nothing. Mum looked awkward, as if she wanted to hug me but was being restrained by her loyalty to Dad. For a while we just stood there, a silent knot in that singing crowd. What can you say to a father who has made it quite clear that you don’t belong in his life any longer?

Amiria and Tyrone joined us. They had been doing some last-minute duty-free shopping. As soon as she saw me, Amiria began to cry. When we had been small children we were always trying to push each other out of the pram. As teenagers, there had been times when we wanted to throttle each other. The gap in her teeth was bigger than mine. How would we get on at opposite ends of the world?

Auntie Pat started the conversation.

‘I suppose your sister’s told you that she’s pregnant?’

Amiria sniffled and glared at Tyrone.

‘I told you to keep on using your condoms.’

Mum gave a nervous laugh, and Dad tried a different track. ‘Better start thinking about buying that double pram for the twins,’ he said.

Tyrone blanched, Amiria started to wail, and you could count on Mum to make things worse.

‘What did you two get married for? To have children of course!’

Another family argument began. Dad apologised to Amiria that he had only been joking. Mum folded her arms and said she didn’t know what the fuss was all about. Tyrone tried to hug Amiria and reassure her that he didn’t mind that she was pregnant.

In the middle of all of it, Auntie Pat pulled me away. ‘They won’t miss us,’ she said.

But I saw the look Dad gave her, as if she was doing something he disapproved of. Despite the fact that she was older than Dad, he was head of the family. Auntie Pat had always been somebody who said yes to him, a sister he had sometimes gently ridiculed because of her submissive nature and her spinsterhood.

‘Am I causing trouble for you, Auntie Pat?’

She stared at Dad and then turned to me — and I sensed that the relationship between her and my father was changing.

‘Yes,’ she answered. ‘Your father doesn’t like me taking your side. He’s used to me being the kind of girl I was when Dad had us under his thumb, and the kind of sister I’ve been — up until now. He doesn’t like it when I argue with him or speak against him. He’s not used to it.’

We went to find some of the stuff that passes for coffee at an airport. Auntie Pat was tense — but for another reason. I guessed it was the diary.

‘I’ve begun reading Sam’s story,’ I said.

She sighed and took both my hands in hers and held them tight. I was surprised at the intensity of the gesture and the force she put into it. Any further pressure and her grip would have hurt.

‘I never realised how much of a relief it would be to share his story with someone else. To share it with you —’

I knew what she meant. Once, I had simply been her nephew and she had been my aunt. My coming out had led to a particular act of trust — the giving to me of the diary. And like Auntie Pat’s relationship with Dad, hers and mine was changing. I liked this new Auntie Pat, this spirited woman whom I was becoming close friends with. Our alliance was shifting the shapes of both our lives.

Then Auntie Pat said something strange, as if speaking to herself. ‘And now that the lid is off Pandora’s Box, I guess whatever is in there, for good or ill, will come flying out —’

She closed her eyes and sighed.

‘When you get back to Wellington I want you to go out and talk to George.’

For a moment I didn’t know who she was talking about. Then it clicked:

‘George? So he didn’t die in Vietnam?’

‘No. What makes you think that! I haven’t seen him in many years but I rang Emma —’

‘Turei’s sister?’

‘You know about her? She gave me George’s number in Porirua, just outside Wellington. I told him you might want to talk to him about Sam. He’s expecting you at the Porirua Tavern eight o’clock Friday night, next weekend.’

‘Can he tell me about Cliff Harper too?’

A look of fear crossed Auntie Pat’s face. ‘How much do you need to know about Cliff Harper?’ she asked. Her expression was angry, almost bitter.

We rejoined Mum and Dad just as Amiria and Tyrone’s final boarding call was made.

It was obvious that Mum would cry. But none of us was prepared for Dad’s sudden grief.

‘Amiria,’ he burst out. Tears were rushing down his cheeks like a river.

At the sight of Dad’s sorrow, tears sprang to my eyes too. Part of it was because of the emotion of the moment. Another part of it was because here was my father, weeping for Amiria who was only going to America; and here I was, his son whom he had thrown out of the family. Had there been any tears for me? No. None. Even so I tried to close the gap between us.

When Amiria and Tyrone went through Customs, Dad was still weeping. I went to offer support. He looked at me, dabbing at his tears with a handkerchief, and turned his back on me.

‘Your mother and I have decided,’ he said. ‘Don’t come home for Christmas.’

Auntie Pat began to argue with him: ‘Now, Monty, that’s a stupid thing to say.’ But he was already walking away with Mum through that roistering Polynesian crowd.

My anger made me walk after him and force him to turn and look me in the eyes.

‘Dad, why do you think I stayed away from home? Why do you think I live in Wellington? It makes no difference to me.’

Did I mean it? Yes. No. Yes —

‘Then don’t come back at all,’ Dad said. ‘Ever.’

It was raining when I returned to Wellington. I was depressed and angry with myself for having pushed Dad too far, for mishandling the situation. But there was no use crying over spilt milk.

What’s done was done. The gloves were back on.

The taxi queue was chaos, with men in business suits jumping the queue and grabbing taxis without apology. A guy carrying a large, bulky canvas bag over his shoulder bumped into me, and for a minute I was on the defensive. Bloody idiot. Why didn’t he look …

But I was drained by the altercation with Dad and by Amiria’s departure. So I let the moment go — until he bumped into me again.

‘Remember me?’ the culprit said, laughing.

Shaven head. Taller than I had expected. Lasers had limned his profile with green fire. ‘Carlos.’

‘Good boy! You’ve passed Go and been given a hotel on Mayfair. Why didn’t you tell me that the person you were with at the club was your Auntie! I met your girlfriend, and she told me. I thought you were with another guy. Are you available?’

His boldness took my breath away.

‘I’m in a relationship right now, but it’s rocky. I’m not right for anybody. I don’t want to get involved.’

‘Damn,’ Carlos answered, making a teasing gesture. ‘Here I was hoping we’d do the wild thing! Look, I’d give you a lift but I’ve got to get this gear back —’ Apart from his canvas bag, he had a pile of aqualung equipment on a trolley. ‘I’ve been doing some diving up around the Hen and Chickens.’ He took out a piece of paper, and scribbled his telephone number on it. With another grin he pretended to throw dice.

‘If you don’t call me soon you lose your hotels on Mayfair and go straight to jail, you hear?’

Back at the flat, I dumped my bags and opened a can of beer. Life was changing all around me and it was happening so fast. In less than a month I had come out to my parents, my boyfriend had walked out, and my sister was now on her way to live in America. My parents no longer talked to me, and my aunt had given me the diary of an uncle who I had never known existed. A history which once I had been part of and belonged to was disappearing as surely as if somebody had pressed the Delete button on a document named Michael Mahana. Correction. I , Michael, had pressed the button and consigned the file to the Recycle Bin. By my own act I had rendered myself a man without a history. And now a guy named Carlos had given me a hotel on Mayfair.