Huia Short Stories 10 Page 2

  He strides down the aisle towards the back, towards me, and I shrink into my seat and look away, hoping he’ll sit somewhere else. No such luck. He throws himself down on the seat just in front of me and, muttering loudly, begins to pluck at the strings of his guitar.

  I shrink lower into my seat, trying to make myself small, and I put a pissed-off look on my face to show everybody on the bus that I am not related to – or associated in any way with – this man.

  Up front, a Pākehā couple turn around and look back at the noise he’s making, at me sitting behind him, then at each other in a ‘typical Māoris’ sort of way. That look was exactly why I didn’t want him sitting near me. My shoulders slump, and I let my head drop back against the head rest. Now I’m associated with this crazy man just because we both have brown skin – naturally.

  The plucking and muttering continues. The bus is permeated by a tense silence that doesn’t seem to register with crazy man.

  ‘Me he manu rere …,’ he begins to sing. I am annoyed that I have to put up with this noise till Whāngārei, so I rustle around in my bag and pull out my iPod. I make as much noise as possible plugging in the earphones, making a deliberate show of humming and harring my way through playlists. My intent is to shame him into silence. The singing in front of me stops, and suddenly I feel ashamed. But crazy man is looking out the window, at the green hills flying by, seemingly entranced. ‘Going home,’ he whispers to nobody in particular – least of all me – but I feel the same way.

  I remember my laptop, and I pull it out of its bag and stare at it as if I’m waiting for it to answer a question. If I were to fire it up and open Outlook I would see one unread email. It arrived two nights ago, just after I finished watching TV. I saw the blue notification box pop up in the lower right of the screen, and I could tell it was a personal message from Dad because it didn’t have one of those stupid ‘FWD:’ labels on it, and the subject was ‘Hi’. I remember thinking that I couldn’t be bothered reading some lame message from him at that hour, so I had turned off my laptop and gone to bed – only to be woken three hours later by my tearful mother.

  My fingers tap on the edge of the laptop. So do I read the email? Or leave it? What will it say – or what is it that I want it to say? Did he somehow know he was going to have a massive stroke, and wanted to reach out to me, the only child, and tell me one last time that he loved me? That I was the best thing that happened to him and Mum, and all that bullshit every kid secretly longs to hear but cringes when they actually do? Or was it just a quick ‘Hello, how’s uni? Hope you’re looking after yourself’?

  I snap my laptop shut and put it away. I notice the trembling in my fingers, and I lean back and close my eyes, squeezing them tight; squeezing the thoughts away and momentarily succeeding. But it doesn’t stop the tears.

  The bus shudders to a halt. I wake up and look outside. Kaiwaka. Thirty-minute food and toilet break, then off on the last leg home. I get off the bus and search in my bag for my cigarettes.

  Shit, I’ve left them on the fridge in my dorm … right on top of … ahh, my wallet! This day just gets better and better. I walk around stretching my legs, and happily I find a stray ciggie at the bottom of my bag. Fag in mouth, I look around for someone with a light. Bugger, crazy man’s the only one smoking – typical. I amble over to where he’s sitting on the plastic chairs outside the diner.

  ‘Can I borrow a light?’

  ‘Hmm?’ He peers up at me through a cloud of smoke, one eye screwed shut and the other bloodshot – figures.

  ‘A light?’ I mime the flicking action that people all over the damn world can understand. He smiles at me and laughs, chucking me his lighter, and in an easy tone tells me he thought I said I’d recognised him.

  ‘Me recognise you?’ This oughta be good. ‘From where?’

  Crazy man takes on another persona: ‘Jake, hey, Jake! What’chu drinking, bro?’ And suddenly I do recognise him from somewhere. It takes a second, then it clicks; crazy man was in Once Were Warriors.

  ‘Me name’s Hemi,’ says Hemi.

  My shoulders relax. I feel relief, like I can trust him now, but I’m not really sure why. I smile. It is the first real smile I’ve had on my face for days. We sit outside the roadside diner in the small town of Kaiwaka, smoking our cigarettes and looking at the green hills. Cars go by on the main road and the people inside probably just see a couple of horis sucking down tar to make our lungs dark like our skins, but I feel peace in that moment.

  ‘Hey, do you want some food?’ Hemi asks me.

  ‘Nah, I don’t have any money.’

  ‘You hungry? Come on, I’ll buy you food.’

  I follow him into the diner and he loads up a tray with sandwiches and cakes.

  ‘You look like you could use a good feed, girl,’ he says.

  We go outside with the food and eat it in the sun. Afterwards, Hemi reaches into his battered brown bag and hands me a full packet of cigarettes.

  ‘Here, take it. I got a coupla cartons,’ he tells me. ‘I’ve just come back from Oz; I been shooting a movie.’

  ‘Really?’ I grin.

  ‘Yup; I been shooting with some of those peeps from Ngāti Home and Away.’

  ‘Eh? What are they like?’

  ‘They’re all shit.’ He laughs like Billy T, and I can’t help but join in.

  We spark up another ciggie, and I hear Dad’s voice asking me if I still smoke. I remember Dad snapping me and my friend smoking cigarettes in the woodshed when we were fifteen and giving me that look that makes you wither with shame. I remember watching a programme with him when I was ten about a Māori woman who smoked, got lung cancer, lost her hair and died.

  I chuck my cigarette away half-smoked, and Hemi looks at me.

  A shout erupts from my left as a father pushes his child high in the swing at the diner’s playground, and I remember Christmas time when I was about five years old; sitting on my dad’s lap in my pyjamas, wearing my brand new jandals, and him reading my new Henny Penny book. His hands had looked so big to me, and I remember putting my index finger on top of his and tracing the words on the page. And I remember the look on his face when I told him I was going to uni to get my degree; the first in my family to do so. He didn’t say anything. He didn’t have to.

  ‘Come on girl, time to go,’ Hemi says, his voice gentle.

  We get back on the bus. Hemi chats to me about working on movie sets with famous actors. He tells me about his family, and what he’s planning on eating when he gets home. I sit there and just listen. Buoyed and supported by his words, I am humbled by this man willing to give a stranger food and company and ask for nothing in return.

  In between conversation and silence he strums his guitar and sings. They’re all Māori songs I know, but I don’t join in. I’m happy just to lean back and let myself drift on the sound of Hemi’s voice. I’ve heard Lauren Hill sing at the Logan Campbell Centre with the voice of a thousand angels, and Tina Cross on her knees belting out a flawless solo during Cats, but nothing is so memorable to me – feels so soothing – as the melody from Hemi’s guitar mixing with the harmony of his voice.

  I lean back in my seat. I close my eyes. And somewhere in the midst of Hemi’s music I grieve for the father I have just lost. In my pain, I am comforted by this gift Hemi has given me, the solace in sound, born from the unexpected meeting between us. The music builds, holds, releases me, until at last the waves of grief subside and, as I open my eyes, Hemi’s voice moans and goes quiet.

  ‘You’ll be alright, love.’

  Awa

  Shelly Davies

  They’re all waiting for him to arrive. Uncle Munch has brought beer and Raha is strumming away on his gat, like always.

  Choonga-chick, choonga-chick.

  Some of the aunties are singing along. And laughing. The mokos are over in the grass playing with toy trucks and battleships. Always best to keep them busy while they’re waiting. Nothing worse than kids hōhā with waiting.

  Na
na’s got flowers. She’s always got flowers.

  Everything’s ready. He’s coming a little sooner than expected, but everyone’s looking forward to seeing him. They’ve made room for him, had a tidy-up, put the kai on. There’ll be a party tonight.

  Nana looks down the hill, toward the river.

  One of the mokos rushes over, tugs on her blue Sunday dress. ‘Is he coming?’

  ‘Kao. Not yet, my moko. He’ll be here soon enough.’

  She sends him off to play again with a swat on the nono. He goes back to his little spot where all his special things are. There’s the red fire truck, an old battleship, a stuffed toy puppy that’s been left out in the rain. And spinning brightly in the wind are three of those windmill things that someone has stuck into the ground. Kids love their special things.

  Nana smooths her grey hair. She’s had it curled and set. She’s even put on some lippy. Ani Tiahomai Reweti. Her children love her dearly. She’s always been an example for them to follow. She makes the best rēwana bread. She’s made some for tonight.

  ‘E boy!’ she calls. ‘Raha!’

  He stops strumming and some of the aunties protest. ‘Shh!’ he says. ‘Yes, Nan?’

  ‘Play something else. I’m sick of you fullas singing out of tune. Play something I know.’

  ‘Yes, Nan,’ he says, and tries a few different chords, before starting into ‘Pearly Shells in the Ocean’. Raha George Hohepa. He’s much more agreeable these days. He’s learned some lessons the hard way. Too much drinking and partying. He might have changed his ways but he’s still got a mullet. Business in the front, party in the back.

  Nana hums along. Folds her arms across her chest and faces back towards the river.

  Uncle Munch walks over and stands beside her.

  ‘Don’t worry, Mum,’ he says, ‘it won’t be long now.’

  Nana nods. Looks around.

  ‘Where’s Hiria?,’ she says. ‘I saw her earlier.’

  ‘Gone down the hill to meet him. Reckon she’s hoping for a bit of a private moment, if you know what I mean.’ Uncle Munch nudges Nana and chuckles so that his too-short necktie bounces against his beer belly. Manawanui ‘Munch’ Te Atatū Reweti. He loves to laugh, and he has ruddy cheeks from his years of hard work on the farm. He’s always been such a hard worker.

  ‘E hika, Manawanui,’ she says. ‘I have given birth to eight children, yourself included. I know about private moments. Besides. No doubt she has some things she needs to say.’

  ‘And he needs to hear,’ Munch says.

  ‘That too.’

  Hiria leans against a ponga tree. She has always loved the way its fronds hang so gracefully. Like a waterfall suspended in time. Years ago they hung low enough to hide her head and shoulders. She always felt safe under their shelter; warm, able to breathe. Now the ponga reaches crookedly for the sky, the fronds swaying far above her head.

  She watches the path from the river. He’ll be here soon. She’s been waiting for today. She had thought about getting dressed up, making sure she looks her best. But really, she decided, she’d just rather be herself. Hiria Tūmanako, who loves life and will tell it to you straight. Wearing a T-shirt with jeans that are ragged around the bottom, and sneakers. Straight black hair hanging loosely. This is me, she thinks. He can take it or leave it.

  He stands at the bottom of the hill and looks up. He knows they are all up there, waiting for him. There’ll be quite a party tonight. He takes a deep breath and lets it out slowly.

  He turns and looks at the awa. He used to paddle it in his younger years. Spent summers jumping off rocks and pushing his mates in. Fished for eels to take home to Nana. He knows it like a brother. Or maybe a cousin. That cousin who’s fun to have around most of the time but who you couldn’t trust as far as you can throw him. He knows the appeal of the awa’s beauty and tranquillity is deceptive. He had once forgotten that for a while.

  He takes another deep breath, clicks his neck first to one side then the other, and takes his first step towards the hill.

  It’s beautiful here. People have respected this whenua. Tended it, treated it as sacred ground. They have made their spaces and left their mark, but have also loved Papatūānuku and cared for her. Swords of harakeke point straight to the sky, their chocolatey flowers promising propagation. As he walks, little brown mokomoko scurry under rocks. They are the kaitiaki of this place. Although they’re gone he can feel their eyes on him; watching, ever watching. He lifts his head and squares his shoulders. Big fat crickets jump across the path ahead. Māori-looking crickets, he thinks. Big and buff and dark-as brown. They even have darker heads; swirling moko to mark their whakapapa.

  He sees Hiria first. She’s leaning against an old ponga tree, arms folded.

  He swears under his breath. Raises his eyebrows. Half smiles.

  Her face lights up, and she puts her hands in her jeans pockets. Cocks her head to one side.

  ‘Heya,’ she says.

  ‘Hey, He.’

  ‘Look at you all dressed up. Never thought I’d see you in a suit.’

  ‘Had to grow up sometime, I guess.’

  ‘You look good,’ she says.

  ‘So do you. You always did.’

  She looks at him.

  ‘Not as good as her, tho, aye,’ she says, and just like that, the smile drops from her face.

  ‘Oh shit, He. That was a long time ago.’

  ‘Yep.’

  ‘I was just a kid,’ he says.

  ‘We both were. But there’s no age limit on broken hearts, aye bro.’

  ‘I wish I could take it back, He. I’m really sorry.’

  ‘Are you really?’

  ‘I never should’ve done it. I was just a kid.’

  ‘Stop saying that. It’s no excuse. I was just a kid, too, but I never cheated on you.’

  ‘No you didn’t. You wouldn’t.’

  He looks at his feet and then back at her.

  ‘She wasn’t worth it, He,’ he says.

  ‘You’re damn right she wasn’t.’

  They look at each other.

  She cocks her head to the side again and a smile starts in her eyes.

  ‘It was a long time ago, aye,’ she says.

  ‘Yeah.’

  ‘You’re here now.’

  ‘I was scared out of my mind to see you again,’ he says.

  She laughs.

  ‘Thought I might slap you in the face?’

  ‘Yeah.’

  ‘Good,’ she says. ‘Now come on, enough of this. Water under the bridge.’

  She holds out her hand.

  He raises his eyebrows.

  ‘Come on, she says. There’s a party waiting for you.’

  They walk together hand in hand, and laugh about old times. They climb the grassy path, and he holds back sharp toetoe leaves for her to pass. They duck under ponga fronds and wave to some kuia playing cards at a picnic table.

  He hears the guitar. Choonga-chick, choonga-chick. Then the cackle of the aunties laughing. He smiles, but he stops walking. Hiria looks at him.

  ‘How is he?’ he asks.

  ‘Raha?’

  He nods.

  ‘He’s, um … subdued,’ she says.

  ‘What does that mean?’

  ‘It means he’s changed,’ she says. ‘He learned. The hard way.’

  ‘I still wanna punch him in the head,’ he says.

  ‘Huh,’ she says. ‘Some of us might pay to see that.’

  They walk around a grassy bend and a small stand of mānuka. Raha and the aunties are sitting on a park bench. Raha looks up from his guitar and stops strumming.

  ‘Bro,’ Raha says.

  ‘Dick.’

  ‘Oooh,’ croons one of the aunties, and the others laugh. The men ignore them.

  ‘Don’t be like that, bro,’ Raha says.

  ‘Nah, man, I should smash you for what you did.’

  ‘Oooooooh,’ the aunty says again. Hiria walks over to her.

  ‘Come on
Aunty,’ she says, ‘let’s see if Nana needs any help with the kai.’

  ‘Party pooper,’ the aunty says, and she walks off scowling. Hiria and the other aunties follow. Hiria glances back at the two men.

  ‘Bro,’ Raha says, ‘remember that party after we won at hakas and you passed out drunk in the wharepaku at Michelle’s place?’

  ‘And when I woke up you had drawn me a moustache and a monobrow in black Vivid?’

  Raha laughs. ‘What are best mates for, aye?’

  ‘Well, to the best of my recollection they’re for stashing their dope in my backpack so that I get a record and community service.’

  ‘Oh, yeah …’

  ‘And they’re for stealing your motorbike when they’re so wasted they can’t even drive straight and then they crash into parked cars.’

  ‘Um, I would have classed that as borrowing …’

  ‘But the thing best mates are crash-hot at is knocking you down to get their keys back, even though they’re so off their face that when they’re driving home they wipe out an entire whānau coming home from the movies.’

  Raha’s eyes are glistening.

  ‘You don’t have to tell me what I did,’ he says.

  ‘I tried to stop you.’

  ‘Yeah, you did,’ Raha says.

  ‘You should have listened to me.’

  ‘I know.’

  ‘Bro, that whānau.’

  ‘I know,’ Raha says.

  They look at each other.

  He shakes his head. Opens his arms and steps forward to Raha. They grip each other tightly and cry.

  They step apart, looking away from each other, clearing their throats and wiping their eyes.

  ‘Your nana’s waiting for you,’ Raha says.

  ‘How is the old girl?’

  ‘Well enough to clip you round the ears if she hears you talking about her like that,’ Nana says from behind him.

  He spins around.

  ‘Nana!’ he says, and he bounds over to her, hugging her so tightly he lifts her feet off the ground. She giggles and smacks him on the shoulder.

  ‘Didn’t I raise you to be more respectful to your elders?’ she says.

  He puts her down. Smiles at her.

  ‘You two OK?’ she asks. ‘I came to make sure you were acting like the grown men you are.’