Huia Short Stories 11 (2 page)

Kuia breathes in the powerful essence of her tūrangawaewae and swings her tokotoko with her right hand as she returns home, with a lighter step.

The small thin girl stood shivering under one of the oak trees that lined the street. She had been waiting a long time, occasionally moving from one foot to the other and hugging herself to keep out the cold. There was a light drizzle, enough to soak her, and she hoped Miss would let her dry off a bit in the warmth of the cooking room.

The car came down the hill, backfiring and blowing gunshots of noise combined with black smoke, into the wintery air. This is what Aroha had been waiting for, and she watched as the car jolted into the parking area and stalled. One thing was for sure, the girl thought, Miss was either a shit driver or needed to get a new car.

Probably both.

The car door opened and a woman got out. Her hair was bright red, a dye job gone wrong, and it could have lit up the corner of any room. Short and plump, she was frowning. Walking to the front of the car, she glared at it and said, ‘Piece of shit,' then walked to the driver's side and kicked the tyre. She opened the back door and grabbed out a handbag and a bag of groceries.

Aroha saw her chance and darted forward. ‘Can I help you Miss?' she called.

The woman, Pene Walker, stopped and smiled, relief lighting up her face. ‘Oh Aroha, could you bring in the rest of the groceries for me? I'm running late this morning and this piece of sh … the car wouldn't start.'

‘No problem Miss,' and before the teacher could change her mind, the girl had dived into the car and gathered up the plastic bags of supermarket groceries.

The rain was more persistent now, and the woman and girl made for the classroom, running through the parking area, splashing into puddles and across the playground. Pene Walker fumbled for the key in her bag, slipped it into the lock and opened it with a loud clunk. ‘Need to get that oiled.' she said. ‘Damn thing sticks half the time and it either jams tight or doesn't lock at all. Worse than my car.'

Aroha didn't think anything could be worse than Miss's car, but she said nothing.

Earlier, the caretaker had turned on the heaters and the room was warm. Aroha also noticed the residual smell of bread from yesterday's cooking class and her stomach rumbled.

She lifted the bags onto one of the benches. ‘Can I put them away for you Miss? I know where everything goes.'

The teacher had a towel in her hand and was busy rubbing her hair and dabbing at her clothes in an effort to dry them. She looked over at Aroha, and for the first time noticed she was soaking wet. ‘My God girl, you're wetter than I am. You can't go to class like that. You'll get your death of cold.' She thought for a minute. ‘Go out the back into the laundry. There's a couple of old spare school uniforms there. Try them on for size and see how you go. And take this towel and dry yourself off. When you come back, I'll make you a cup of Milo.'

Aroha went into the back room where the washing machine and drier were kept, used for washing tea towels and oven cloths. She took off her uniform, wincing as she pulled it over her head, trying not to look at the dark purple bruises that flared over her ribs and down her legs, a legacy of the beating Uncle had given her the night before. She had fallen asleep on the couch waiting for them to come home. And by the time they did, the dinner she'd cooked had burned and gone cold.

She was used to being hit, having bruises and welts, but last night the man her mother made her call Uncle was roaring drunk. Picking up the broom, he'd hit her over and over again. She'd curled up in a ball like a hedgehog she'd once seen when she came across it during the day. But there were still parts of her body she couldn't defend. He struck her legs and back, and when she tried to stand and run, her stomach and ribs.

She didn't sleep – too sore – and although she thought there was no longer any room for crying, her sobs and whimpers soaked the pillow.

This morning she left the house early not bothering to try and find anything to eat. There was nothing anyway – only some stale milk. The rumbling snores where her mother and Uncle lay sleeping, echoed round the bedroom. They would probably be gone when she came home from school, back to the pub to play snooker, cards or drink until the money ran out.

Aroha carried her wet uniform out to where Pene Walker heated milk in a saucepan. ‘Shall I put it in the drier Miss?'

‘No, leave it in the laundry and I'll sort it out later. That is if you don't mind wearing what you've got on.'

Aroha didn't mind at all. This dress smelled clean and sort of like flowers – she supposed it was the washing liquid, but whatever it was, she liked it. When her uniform got dirty, and she only had the one, she had to wash it by hand and it never seemed to be completely clean. The stains didn't come out, and in summer it was hard to get rid of the smell of sweat.

Some of the kids made comments, though she tried to ignore them. ‘Can't you afford soap in your house Aarrooohaaa?' ‘Go and jump in the river and have a wash Aarrooohaaa.' And in class, the whisper, ‘I don't want to sit with you. You stink.'

The words hurt as much as the beating.

‘Would you like some sugar in your Milo?' the teacher asked, and Aroha nodded. ‘What about a muffin? I made some yesterday and there's one or two in the fridge. Go and get them and eat them up. They'll only go stale if you don't.'

Aroha sat, ate muffins and drank hot Milo. Cupping the warm drink in her hands, she swung her legs, forgetting for a moment the bruises that covered them from ankle to knee.

‘What's that on your legs?' Pene asked, leaning forward.

Aroha quickly pulled the uniform down as far as it would go. ‘I fell over the other day. Down some steps,' she added quickly. ‘It's okay. It doesn't hurt and they'll be gone by tomorrow. I'm always bumping into things and falling over. I'm just clumsy.'

She turned away and, picking up the plate and cup, washed and dried them and got ready to go. She felt safe here and wished she could stay in this warm place for ever. Instead, she was going home that afternoon to face Uncle and her mother like always. Aroha didn't think Mrs Walker would hit her kids or make them wear stinky clothes.

The teacher put her arm around Aroha's shoulders. The girl flinched, not meaning to, but the touch was painful. ‘Is everything all right at home? You could tell me, you know.'

Aroha said nothing, just shook her head. Her eyes stung and she swallowed hard, but waited until she was outside before she cried and her tears mingled with the cold morning rain.

Pene had met Aroha's ‘uncle' once, and the memory of that meeting still left a bad taste in her mouth. A celebrity chef had made a visit to Whakatāne, and the class were invited to experience a cook school. It was a wonderful opportunity, and the only charge was five dollars for the bus. All the children paid except Aroha, and one afternoon on her way home, Pene called in to see if there was a reason why she wasn't allowed to go.

An old car sat in the driveway and the house was in need of a paint. There were no curtains and one of the windows was cracked, while another had boards nailed over it. She wished she hadn't come, but it was too late now. She knocked on the door and heard heavy footsteps.
I feel like one of the Billy Goats Gruff, and here's the Troll that lives under the bridge
, she thought.

The door opened and a man with a black bushy beard stood glaring at her. His belly pouched over his belt, a dirty shirt was open to the waist and a smell of sweat, alcohol and bad breath gathered around him in a cloud.

Where's your Chanel No 5 when you need it?
Pene thought, taking a step back.

‘What d'ya want?' he asked, his eyes roaming up and down her body but never reaching her face.

She explained about the trip and needing the money for the bus, but she already knew as she spoke it was a waste of time. The money in this house went on other things – certainly not school trips or, God help her, toothpaste and deodorant!

‘Waste of fucking time taking kids to something like that. Bloody girl can't cook anyway. Always burning stuff. Go and ask some other arsehole for money. You won't get any here.' And he shut the door in her face.

No, she didn't like Aroha's ‘uncle' at all, and in the end she had paid for the girl to go on the trip without anyone knowing.

When Pene saw the bruises on those thin legs, a voice spoke in her head and she knew the how and why of their cause. Although only a suspicion, she knew she was right. Her own children, two little boys, were boisterous, plump as puppies and full of fun. They weren't like this child, thin, with dark circles under her eyes and an air like she was walking on eggshells. Maybe if she got a chance later today, she would have a word with Peter Hemi, the headmaster, and see what he thought.

But in the end, the day was a busy one; she got caught up with other problems and forgot. It wasn't until later that evening, getting ready for bed, she remembered. ‘I'll go and see Peter first thing tomorrow,' she said to herself, but the feeling of guilt didn't go away and she slept poorly that night.

Aroha dragged her feet going home. Somehow the rain seemed colder, the puddles deeper and the day darker than it should have been mid-afternoon. She didn't want to go inside, but there was nowhere else. She walked up the pathway, opened the door and was swallowed by the darkness.

That night, Uncle came to her room. He'd done it before, but in the past had only stood in the doorway, yelling, swearing and threatening. This time it was different.

Aroha was asleep, but came awake when he sat on the edge of the bed and the mattress sagged under his weight. She smelled him, a combination of beer, cigarettes and something else that was probably pot. He put his hand on her head and began to stroke it. ‘Lovely hair, just like your mother's,' he whispered. He ran his hand over her face and Aroha lay frozen, hardly breathing.

His hand went lower, to her neck then her shoulders. Aroha jolted up. ‘Mum,' she called, her voice loud in the small room, but all she heard was the sound of the television in the lounge.

She called again, ‘Mum!' and the name caught in her throat, she was so unfamiliar with it. How long since she last called the woman who lived in this house anything?

The man clamped his hand over her mouth. ‘Shut up you little bitch. There's just you and me.' He pulled back the covers and started to get into the bed. Aroha's heart thumped so hard in her chest, she thought it would burst. He was breathing heavily and had taken off his trousers and underpants. Panic flared, but instead of immobilising her, everything was magnified a thousand times. She hated him, this man who filled her with so much terror that sometimes when he beat her, she wet herself. She pushed him. An action so unexpected that he fell to the floor.

Aroha leapt from the bed and ran for the front door. She gave no thought to the fact that all she had on were pyjamas. Somewhere behind her, she heard noises and her uncle's voice calling her to come back. ‘I'll come looking for you bitch. You can't hide from me. You got nowhere to go.'

A door slammed, but Aroha didn't look round to see if he was following or had gone back inside.

She kept running, gasping for breath, stumbling over gravel and loose stones, wincing and crying out as unseen things sliced her naked feet. No streetlights shone. No cars swished along the wet road. Aroha felt she was the only person left alive in the entire world, and it was a dark place.

Pene Walker drove down the hill, towards the school. The car had only backfired twice, blowing out minimal smoke, which was a good omen. She decided today she would teach the kids how to make scones, maybe cheese scones if the budget ran to it.

As she came up to the school, something caught her eye. She braked hard and the car backfired in retaliation, smoke billowing out and spreading across the car park in a black cloud. Pene got out and walked over to one of the giant oak trees, squinting, unable to quite make out what she could see.

Then she did.

‘Oh Aroha,' she whispered. ‘What have they done to you?'

And the teacher with the bright red hair that could have lit up a room, knelt down and gathered up the girl huddled beneath the sheltering branches of the giant oak tree and held her in her arms.

The waiting is the worst. Watching them leave. Wondering how long before someone comes back home. Tāne's heart beats fast, and he's always listening for the sound of police sirens.

They've been doing this for six weeks. Jewellery is the main thing, small stuff they can put in their pockets or schoolbags carried over their shoulders. That way if the cops see them, they can pretend they're on their way to school. That's the idea, anyway.

The boys, Wiri, Ben and Tāne, want to get into the Scorpions gang, but to do that they have to prove they've got what it takes, which means breaking into houses and stealing. Tāne doesn't like it, because many of the people they steal from don't have much. It seems mean, but when he says this to Wiri and Ben, they say, ‘Don't be such a pussy,' so he shuts up.

Today, the house is on the edge of a park and there's no one around so it should be easy. Going up to the front door, Wiri knocks, and although they already know there's no one home, it pays to play it safe. They walk around the side and find a window that's half open, and Tāne gets to climb in, because even though he's sixteen, he's still the smallest. He opens the back door and the other two bundle inside, making for the bedroom, where most people keep their jewellery. The house is neat and clean and smells like someone's been baking. On the bench in the kitchen, Tāne finds some biscuits – chocolate chip, his favourite. He hasn't had breakfast and he's starving.

Taking big bites, he demolishes two and then stuffs six more in his pockets, hearing them crunch and knowing they're turning into crumbs, but it doesn't matter. He'll eat the bits later.

‘Tāne, come on,' he hears Wiri call and goes into the bedroom. The drawers have been pulled out and everything is on the floor. There's clothes and underwear and Ben holds up a pair of old lady's pants, puts them on his head and dances around the room. It looks so funny that the boys fall on the floor laughing, which is great, until they hear the sirens coming down the street.

They race out the door and across the park, Ben still with the knickers on his head. But it's too late – there are cops and cars everywhere. Worse still, there's dogs, and although they're on leads, the look of them is enough to make Tāne piss himself.

He runs, but he's no match for the dogs or cops, who although big, are fast runners. There's a ‘whump' and the wind is knocked out of him as he's tackled. Tāne flies through the air and next thing is lying on his stomach with tufts of grass and dirt in his mouth. When he looks up, there's a dog, the biggest he's ever seen, baring its teeth and growling.

‘Don't eat him Gus,' says a voice. ‘He hasn't got enough meat on him for a decent feed.'

Someone laughs, but Tāne doesn't think it's funny. A hand grabs the back of his shirt and he stands up, trying to rub away snot and grime.

The cop with the dog says, ‘A face only a mother could love,' and the dog barks as though agreeing with him.

What would they know?
Tāne thinks.

He discovers he's the only one the cops caught.

‘Tell us who else was involved and it will go better for you in Court,' they say. He doesn't believe them and stays quiet. The first rule of being in a gang is never to nark on your mates. At least, he thinks that's the first rule, and gets depressed when he considers that Ben and Wiri are probably back at gang headquarters, drinking cola and eating chips while he's in jail with pockets full of crumbly biscuits. He tries to be strong and not mind, but his insides feel like wobbly jelly.

Jail turns out to be not so bad. He's on his own, and although the bed is hard, it's clean with blankets that smell of disinfectant. The cop who arrested him brings a big plate of kai, and he eats it all except the Brussels sprouts. There's even ice cream, and he licks the bowl.

Next morning he goes to Court and a social worker from Child, Youth and Family (CYF) stands up and gives a report. Tāne doesn't understand how she knows all the stuff she talks about, but as he listens, he feels ashamed that everyone should hear what she says.

‘Tāne Hokomia doesn't have a home life,' she says. ‘His father is in prison, away for three years for assault with a deadly weapon, and his mother is a P addict. She is currently undergoing drug rehabilitation. Tāne's siblings are in care, but somehow he's slipped between the cracks, which is why he's here today. He is one of a group of young juveniles who live on the fringe of a gang who utilise their youthful vulnerability to commit crimes.

‘Social Services feel that unless action is taken to withdraw Tāne from this destructive environment, he will inevitably be drawn into a life of crime on a much larger scale.'

She goes on to say that the house they burgled belonged to a seventy-six-year-old woman who had been ‘traumatised by the incident' and had gone to stay with her son for ‘an indefinite period'.

Tāne doesn't understand all the words, but he knows he and his mates have done a shameful thing. He hangs his head, unable to look at the people in the Court. The wobbly jelly feeling is back in his stomach.

The Judge puts him into a temporary foster home in South Auckland. The people, Mr and Mrs Herewini, are nice enough, but Tāne keeps thinking about the old lady – eating the biscuits, tipping out the drawers, disrespecting her things – and it's not a good feeling.

Every day he goes to school. And hates it. The other kids stare, whisper behind his back, and he's way behind in maths and reading. The numbers don't make sense or add up, and words swim on the page. At interval and lunchtime no one asks him to join in, so he sits alone until the bell rings and everyone goes back inside.

Three weeks go by, and one day, when he gets home from school, there's someone waiting in the kitchen. He's big, with broad shoulders and a bit of a puku. Looking at him sitting in the flimsy chair, Tāne expects it to break and fall apart like matchsticks. The man is wearing a heavy woollen jumper, a pair of shorts, and heavy workman's boots. Holding out his hand he says, ‘Tēnā koe,' and Tāne's hand is swallowed up by a bear paw. It's huge and the back is bristly like an old dog's whiskers. Hard, sandpapery skin rubs against his fingers, and when he takes his hand away, checking no bones are broken, Tāne sees how his own are smooth without lumps or hard bits. He wonders what this man does that makes his hands so rough.

‘E noho. Sit down,' says the stranger pulling out another chair, and Tāne thinks that if he's only going to be spoken to in Māori, it will be a pretty one-sided conversation.

He sits down, trying to work out what is happening, what this is leading to.

‘CYF sent me to see you. Got yourself into a bit of trouble, eh bro?' says the man.

Tāne nods.

‘I run a mussel barge out of Coromandel and thought you might want to come work for me.' Getting up, he moves the chair closer to Tāne and sits down again. The man looks at his hands and then back at the boy sitting opposite, who thinks to himself that this is not a man you would want to mess with.

‘You'd be paid a decent wage but you'd have to work hard and there's no room for slackers. It would be better than hanging around here waiting to get picked up and carted off to prison. What do you say? If you're keen, I'll pick you up tomorrow afternoon about one o'clock.'

Tāne has never been outside Auckland, and although he has no idea what a mussel barge does, it's got to be better than the last three weeks and going back to school.

‘What's your name?' he asks.

‘Hemi Parere,' the man says and smiles.

The next day, Tāne says goodbye to the Herewinis and walks to where Hemi's car, a Ford van, is parked. He doesn't look back.

Before they leave Auckland, they make a stop at Tāne's house. Nothing has changed in the neighbourhood. The sound of stereos turned up full, barking dogs and litter. Plastic bags, bottles, paper blowing in the wind. Graffiti on the walls. Old cars sit in driveways, rusted, with tyres missing, along with abandoned supermarket trolleys. A wasteland of junk.

Outside Tāne's house the grass is long enough to feed a cow for a year. Under a rock in the backyard, Tāne finds the key and opens the door. Inside it stinks of rotten food, sweat and dirt. There's rubbish everywhere. He thinks of the house he burgled, how clean and nice it smelled. Not like this place. He sees cockroaches scuttling over dirty plates in the kitchen sink.

Hemi stands at the door and says, ‘Come on bro. Grab what you need and let's get out of here.'

Some bits and pieces in a plastic bag and they're gone.

Hemi doesn't talk much, which is fine. Tāne looks out the window as they drive along the motorway. There's market gardens and green paddocks. And further on as they leave the city, there are lambs and calves. So many animals and they're all eating, which, even though it's only grass, makes the boy realise how hungry he is.

When they stop at a café, the smell of food makes his stomach rumble.

‘Don't hold back,' says Hemi. ‘I'm watching my weight, but you go for it.'

Tāne takes him at his word, but after the third steak pie, a large piece of chocolate cake and a milkshake, Hemi asks, ‘You sure you haven't got worms, boy? I'll have to get a loan from the bank, the rate you're eating.'

As soon as they're on the road again, Hemi puts on a tape with someone called Elvis playing a guitar and singing, and although it's music he hasn't heard before, from the 1960s, it's got a good beat. With the sound of ‘Blue Hawaii' hushing him, Tāne falls asleep.

Hemi is full of interesting stories and facts, and the boy learns more from him in an afternoon than from years of going to school.

‘What will I be doing on the boat?' he asks.

‘Everything,' says Hemi and laughs. ‘Nothing like a bit of hard work and experience to toughen a man up. That's what my old man used to say and he wasn't far wrong.'

Tāne looks at the gnarly hands gripping the steering wheel and wonders what sort of hard work he's talking about.

They come to the coast and the road winds round and round, following the edge of the sea and small bays with white sandy beaches. Pōhutukawa covered in red flowers cling to the sides of cliffs and rocky outcrops, their shallow-rooted fingers probing niches and crannies to gain a hold. At times, growing on either side, they form a tunnel.

Hemi sweeps around the corners and then they're up and over a big hill and down the other side, where the town of Coromandel lies waiting. It's just a main street with shops on either side, but before Tāne can get a proper look they're pulling up outside a green-painted house with flower gardens on either side of the drive.

Hemi looks embarrassed. ‘Not mine. The wife's,' he mutters. ‘She does the flowers, I do the vege garden. That's out the back and you can see it tomorrow.'

He meets Hemi's wife, Carol, who's short and plump with bright red hair. She shows him where he'll be staying, a small room, separate from the house, but it has its own bathroom and smells of new paint.

‘You can decorate it how you like,' Carol says, ‘but you have to make your bed and keep it neat and clean.'

She leaves him to settle in, and when he goes to the house a quarter of an hour later, they are waiting for him. There's a roast dinner – beef with gravy, potatoes, kūmara and broccoli – and he eats it all. Carol has made an apple pie with cream and ice cream, his favourite, and he has two helpings.

Tāne is so full he wonders if he'll ever be able to move, but then Hemi says, ‘Got an early start tomorrow morning. I'll wake you about four a.m. so be ready to go. The gear you'll need is in the cupboard in your room; put it all on even if you think you won't need it. It's cold at sea and you can always take it off when you get hot.'

Tāne goes to his room and opens the cupboard. There are socks, boots, heavy woollen trousers, a shirt and a yellow oilskin that comes down to his knees. There's also a red Swanndri, a knitted hat and leather gloves. He looks at the pile of clothes and thinks it will take him from now until four a.m. to put it all on.

He doesn't sleep well, partly because he's excited about the next day, and partly because he doesn't want to keep Hemi waiting when he comes to pick him up. At three o'clock he's wide awake. He gets up, showers and gets dressed. It takes half an hour to put everything on, and at the end of it he's hot and sweaty and wants another shower.

There's a knock on the door and Hemi's standing there, smiling. He looks Tāne up and down, trying not to laugh, and says, ‘Ka pai, Tāne. Let's go.'

Out to the van and it's dark and raining. ‘We'll have breakfast later,' says Hemi. ‘Think you can last?'

They drive through the streets, and Tāne thinks they could be the only ones left in the world. There are no lights and no people, just a ribbon of wet, slick road that winds down to the wharf. The barge is there, lit up like a Christmas tree with men busy tying ropes and stacking canvas sacks in neat piles on the deck.

‘There she is. The
Aranui
. My beauty, twenty-seven metres of her. Bought and paid for,' Hemi says, and there's pride in his voice.

They go on board and Tāne is introduced to Mick, Hector and Jerry. When they shake his hand, he notices that their hands are like Hemi's; rough, with thick yellow nails and skin hard as an elephant's hide.

Beneath his feet, the engines throb, the ropes are cast off and they gently move out past the wharf into the harbour. Small boats, launches and dinghies are tied up to buoys, but Hemi skilfully manoeuvres around them and soon the
Aranui
is making her way out to sea. It's not rough and the boat chugs along, leaving a wake of white foam.

Dawn unfolds and the lights on the barge are turned off. Hector points out a pod of dolphins swimming alongside like grey torpedoes. Seagulls swoop and squawk overhead. Gannets fold their wings and dive, resurfacing moments later with silver fish snaffled in their beaks.