The Whale Rider Page 12

I wish I could say that I had a rapturous return. Instead, Nanny Flowers growled at me for taking so long getting home, saying, ‘I don’t know why you wanted to go away in the first place. After all —’

‘I know, Nanny,’ I said. ‘There’s nothing out there that I can’t get here in Whangara.’

Bang came her hand. ‘Don’t you make fun of me too,’ she said, and she glared at Koro Apirana.

‘Huh?’ Koro said. ‘I didn’t say nothing.’

‘But I can hear you thinking,’ Nanny Flowers said, ‘and I know when you’re funning me
, you old paka.’

‘Yeah, yeah, yeah,’ Koro Apirana said. ‘Te mea te mea.’

Before Nanny Flowers could explode I gathered all of her in my arms, and there was much more of her now than there had been before, and kissed her. ‘Well,’ I said, ‘I don’t care if you’re not glad to see me, because I’m glad to see you.’

Then I handed her the present I had bought her on my stopover in Sydney. You would have thought she’d be pleased but instead, smack came her hand again.

‘You think you’re smart, don’t you,’ she said.

I couldn’t help it, but I had to laugh. ‘Well how was I to know you’d put on weight!’ My present had been a beautiful dress which was now three sizes too small.

That afternoon I was looking out the window when I saw Kahu running along the road. School had just finished.

I went to the verandah to watch her arrival. Was this the same little girl whose afterbirth had been put in the earth those many years ago? Had seven years really gone past so quickly? I felt a lump at my throat. Then she saw me.

‘Uncle Rawiri!’ she cried ‘You’re back!’

The little baby had turned into a doe-eyed, long-legged beauty with a sparkle and infectious giggle in her voice. Her hair was unruly, like an afro, but she had tamed it into two plaits today. She was wearing a white dress and sandals. She ran up the steps and put her arms around my neck.

‘Hullo,’ she breathed as she gave me a kiss.

I held her tightly and closed my eyes. I hadn’t realised how much I had missed the kid. Then Nanny Flowers came out and said to Kahu, ‘Enough of the loving. You and me are working girls! Come here! Be quick!’

‘Nanny and me are hoeing the vegetable garden,’ Kahu smiled. ‘I come very Wednesday to be her mate, when she wants a rest from Koro.’ Then she gave a little gasp and took my hand and pulled me around to the shed at the back of the house.

‘Don’t be too long, Kahu,’ Nanny Flowers shouted. ‘Those potatoes won’t wait all day.’

Kahu waved okay. As I followed her I marvelled at the stream of conversation which poured out of her. ‘I’ve got a baby sister now, Uncle, she’s a darling. Her name is Putiputi after Nanny Flowers. Did you know I was top of my class this year? And I’m the leader of the culture group too. I love singing the Maori songs. Will you teach me how to play the guitar? Oh, neat. And Daddy and Ana are coming to see you tonight once Daddy gets back from work. You bought me a present? Me? Oh where is it, where is it! You can show me later, eh. But I want you to see this first —’

She opened the door to the shed. Inside I saw a gleam of shining silver chrome. Kahu put her arms around me and kissed me again. It was my motorbike.

‘Nanny Flowers and I have been cleaning it every week,’ she said. ‘She used to cry sometimes, you know, when she was cleaning it. Then she’d get scared she might cause some rust.’

I just couldn’t help it; I felt a rush of tears to my eyes. Concerned, Kahu stroked my face.

‘Don’t cry,’ she said. ‘Don’t cry. It’s all right, Uncle Rawiri. There, there. You’re home now.’

Later that night Porourangi arrived. Among the family he was the one who seemed to have aged the most. He introduced me to Ana, for whom I felt an instant warmth, and then proudly showed me the new baby, Putiputi.

‘Another girl,’ Koro Apirana said audibly, but Porourangi took no notice of him. We were used to Koro’s growly ways.

‘Oh, be quiet,’ Nanny Flowers said. ‘Girls can do anything these days. Haven’t you heard you’re not allowed to discriminate against women any more? They should put you in the jailhouse.’

‘I don’t give a hang about women,’ Koro Apirana said. ‘You still haven’t got the power.’

It was then that Nanny Flowers surprised us all. ‘Oh, yeah yeah, you old goat,’ she said.

We had a big family dinner that night with Maori bread and crayfish and lots of wine to drink. Nanny had invited the boys over and they arrived with a roar and a rush of blue smoke and petrol fumes. It was almost as if I had never left. The guitars came out and the voices rang free to make the stars dance with joy. Nanny Flowers was in her element, playing centre stage to her family, and one of the boys got her up to do a hula.

‘Look,’ he cried with delight. ‘The Queen of Whangara!’

There was a roar of laughter at that one, and Kahu came running up to me, saying, ‘See how we love you, Uncle? We killed the fatted calf for you, just like the Bible says.’ She hugged me close and then skipped away like a songbird.

Then Porourangi was there. ‘Is it good to be home?’ he asked cautiously.

‘Yes,’ I breathed. ‘Just fantastic. How has it been?’

‘Much the same as ever,’ Porourangi said. ‘And you know our Koro. He’s still looking.’

‘What for?’

‘The one who can pull the sword,’ Porourangi laughed hollowly. ‘There are a few more young boys he’s found. One of them may be the one.’

Porourangi fell silent. I saw Koro Apirana rocking in his chair, back and forth, back and forth. Kahu came up to him and put her hand in his. He pushed her away and she dissolved into the dark. The guitars played on.

Over the following weeks it was clear to me that Koro Apirana’s search for ‘the one’ had become an obsession. Ever since the birth of Kahu’s young sister he had become more intense and brooding. Perhaps aware of his own mortality, he wanted to make sure that the succession in the present generation was done, and done well. But in doing so he was pushing away the one who had always adored him, Kahu herself.

‘You’d think the sun shone out of his —’ Nanny Flowers said rudely. Kahu had come to the homestead that morning riding a horse, with the news that she’d come first in her Maori class. Nanny Flowers had watched as Koro Apirana had dismissed the young girl. ‘I don’t know why she keeps on with him.’

‘I know why,’ I said to Nanny Flowers. ‘You remember when she bit his toe? Even then she was telling him, “Yeah, don’t think you’re going to keep me out of this!” ’

Nanny Flowers shrugged her shoulders. ‘Well, whatever it is, Kahu is sure a sucker for punishment, the poor kid. Must be my Muriwai breed. Or Mihi.’

Mihi Kotukutuku had been the mother of Ta Eruera, who had been Nanny’s cousin, and we loved the stories of Mihi’s exploits. She was a big chief, descended as she was from Apanui, after whom Nanny’s tribe was named. The story we liked best was the one telling how Mihi had stood on a sacred ground at Rotorua. ‘Sit down,’ a chief had yelled, enraged. ‘Sit down,’ because women weren’t supposed to stand up and speak on sacred ground. But Mihi had replied, ‘No you sit down! I am a senior line to yours!’ Not only that, but Mihi had then turned her back to him, bent over, lifted up her petticoats and said, ‘Anyway, here is the place where you come from!’ In this way Mihi had emphasised that all men are born of women.

We sat there on the verandah, talking about Kahu and how beautiful she was, both inside and outside. She had no guile. She had no envy. She had no jealousy. As we were talking, we saw Koro Apirana going down to the school where seven boys were waiting.

‘Them’s the contenders,’ Nanny Flowers said. ‘One of them’s going to be the Rocky of Whangara.’

Suddenly Kahu arrived, dawdling from the opposite direction. She looked so disconsolate and sad. Then she saw Koro Apirana. Her face lit up and she ran to him, crying ‘Paka! Oh! Paka!’

He turned to her quickly. ‘Go back,’ he said. ‘Go away. You are of no use to me.’

Kahu stopped in her tracks. I thought she would cry, but she knitted her eyebrows and gave him a look of such frustration that I could almost hear her saying to herself, ‘You just wait, Paka, you just wait.’ Then she skipped over to us as if nothing had happened.

I was lucky enough to get a job in town stacking timber in a timber yard and delivering orders to contractors on site. Every morning I’d beep the horn of my motorbike as I passed Porourangi’s, to remind Kahu it was time for her to get out of bed for school. I soon began to stop and wait until I saw her head poking above the window-sill to let me know she was awake. ‘Thank you, Uncle Rawiri,’ she would call as I roared off to work.

Sometimes after work I would find Kahu waiting at the highway for me. ‘I came down to welcome you home,’ she would explain. ‘Nanny doesn’t want any help today. Can I have a ride on your bike? I can? Oh, neat.’ She would clamber on behind me and hold on tight. As we negotiated the track to the village I would be swept away by her ingenuous chatter. ‘Did you have a good day, Uncle? I had a neat day except for maths, yuk, but if I want to go to university I have to learn things I don’t like. Did you go to university, Uncle? Koro says it’s a waste of time for a girl to go. Sometimes I wish I wasn’t a girl. Then Koro would love me more than he does. But I don’t mind. What’s it like being a boy, Uncle? Have you got a girlfriend? There’s a boy at school who keeps following me around. I said to him that he should try Linda. She likes boys. As for me, I’ve only got one boyfriend. No, two. No, three. Koro, Daddy and you. Did you miss me in Australia, Uncle? Did you like Papua New Guinea? Nanny Flowers thought you’d end up in a pot over a fire. She’s a hardcase, isn’t she! You didn’t forget me, Uncle, did you? You didn’t, eh? Well, thank you for the ride, Uncle Rawiri. See you tomorrow. Bye now.’ With an ill-aimed kiss and a hug, and a whirl of white dress, she would be gone.

The end of the school year came, and the school break-up ceremony was to be held on a Friday evening. Kahu had sent invitations to the whole family and included the boys in the list. ‘You are cordially invited,’ the card read, ‘to the school prizegiving and I do hope you are able to attend. No RSVP is required. Love, Kahutia Te Rangi. P.S. No leather jackets please, as this is a formal occasion. P.P.S. Please park all motorbikes in the area provided and not in the Head- master’s parking space like last year. I do not wish to be embraced again.’

On the night of the break-up ceremony, Nanny Flowers said to me, as she was getting dressed. ‘What’s this word
“embraced”?’

‘I think she means “embarrassed”,’ I said.

‘Well, how do I look?’ Nanny asked.

She was feeling very pleased with herself. She had let out the dress I had bought her and added lime-green panels to the sides. Nanny was colour blind and thought they were red. I gulped hard. ‘You look like a duchess,’ I lied.

‘Not like a queen?’ Nanny asked, offended. ‘Well, I’ll soon fix that.’ Oh no, not the hat. It must have looked wonderful in the 1930s but that was ages ago. Ever since, she had added a bit of this and a bit of that until it looked just like something out of her vegetable garden.

‘Oh,’ I swallowed, ‘you look out of this world.’

She giggled coyly. We made our way out to Porourangi’s car. Kahu’s face gleamed out at us.

‘Oh you look lovely,’ she said to Nanny, ‘but there’s something wrong with your hat.’ She made a space for Nanny and said to her, ‘Come and sit by me, darling, and I’ll fix it for you.’

Porourangi whispered to me, ‘Couldn’t you stop the old lady? Her and her blinking hat.’

I was having hysterics. In the back seat Kahu was adding some feathers and flowers and what looked like weeds. The strange thing was that in fact the additions made the hat just right.

The school hall was crowded. Kahu took us to our places and sat us down. There was an empty seat beside Nanny with ‘Reserved’ on it.

‘That’s for Koro when he comes,’ she said. ‘And don’t the boys look neat?’ At the back of the hall the boys were trying to hide behind their suit jackets.

Nanny Flowers jabbed Porourangi in the ribs. ‘Didn’t you tell that kid?’ she asked.

‘I didn’t have the heart,’ he whispered.

For the rest of that evening the seat beside Nanny Flowers remained empty, like a gap in a row of teeth. Kahu seemed to be in everything: the school choir, the skits and the gymnastics, and after every item she would skip back to us and say, ‘Isn’t Koro here yet? He’s missing the best part.’

Then the second half of the programme began. There was Kahu in her skirt and bodice, standing so proudly in front of the school cultural group. ‘Hands on hips!’ she yelled. ‘Let’s begin!’ she ordered. And as she sang, she smiled a brilliant smile at all of us. Her voice rang out with pride.

‘That young girl’s a cracker,’ I overheard someone say. But my heart was aching for her and I wanted to leave. Nanny Flowers gripped me hard and said, ‘No, we all have to sit here, like it or not.’ Her lips were quivering.

The action songs continued, one after another, and I could see that Kahu had realised that Koro Apirana was not going to arrive. The light kept dimming, gradually fading from her face, like a light bulb flickering. By the time the bracket was concluded she was staring down at the floor trying not to see us. She looked as if she was feeling ashamed, and I loved her all the more for her vulnerability.

We tried to bolster her courage by clapping loudly, and we were rewarded by a tremulous smile playing on her face. It was then that the headmaster stepped forward. He made an announcement: one of the students would read the speech which had won the East Coast primary schools contest. What was remarkable, he said, was that the student had given it entirely in her own tongue, the Maori language. He called for Kahutia Te Rangi to come forward.

‘Did you know about this?’ Nanny Flowers asked.

‘No,’ said Porourangi. ‘Come to think of it, she did mention she had a surprise. For her Koro —’

To the cheers of her schoolmates Kahu advanced to the front of the stage.

‘E nga rangatira,’ Kahu began, ‘e nga iwi,’ she looked at Koro Apirana’s empty seat, ‘tena koutou, tena koutou, tena koutou katoa.’ There were stars in her eyes, like sparkling tears. ‘Distinguished guests, members of the audience, my speech is a speech of love for my grandfather, Koro Apirana.’

Nanny Flowers gave a sob, and tears began to flow down her cheeks.

Kahu’s voice was clear and warm as she told of her love for her grandfather and her respect for him. Her tones rang with pride as she recited his whakapapa and ours. She conveyed how grateful she was to live in Whangara and that her main aim in life was to fulfil the wishes of her grandfather and of the tribe.

And I felt so proud of her, so proud, and so sad that Koro Apirana was not there to hear how much she loved him. And I wanted to shout, Well done, good on you, to this young girl who was not really so brave and who would have liked the support of the one person who was never there — her Koro, Apirana. At the end of the speech I leapt to my feet to do a haka of support for her. Then the boys were joining in, and Nanny Flowers was kicking off her shoes. ‘Uia mai koia, whakahuatia ake ko wai te whare nei e? Ko Te Kani —’ The sadness and the joy swept us all away in acknowledging Kahu, but we knew that her heart was aching for Koro Apirana.

In the car, later, Porourangi said, ‘Your Koro couldn’t make it tonight, darling.’

‘That’s all right, Daddy. I don’t mind.’

Nanny Flowers hugged her fiercely. ‘I tell you, Kahu, tomorrow I’m really getting a divorce. Your Koro can go his way and I’ll go mine.’

Kahu put her face against Nanny Flowers’ cheeks. Her voice was drained and defeated. ‘It’s not Paka’s fault, Nanny,’ she said, ‘that I’m a girl.’