Huia Short Stories 11 (3 page)

On the trip out, Tāne learns to wind the thick ropes in perfect coils and stack the large hessian sacks in piles of ten, separated by a piece of plywood to keep them flat. He enjoys the work and time flies past. Jerry pats him on the shoulder and says, ‘Good job,' and Tāne feels his face go hot. He can't remember when someone last told him he'd done something well.

The boat slows and then stops. In the water, strings of large black buoys gently bob up and down. It's quiet, peaceful, until the sound of the radio in the wheelhouse, tuned into Golden Oldies and at full volume, fills the air. It's Elvis Presley singing ‘Blue Suede Shoes' then ‘Jailhouse Rock'. Until he'd met Hemi, Tāne had never heard of Elvis, but he quickly learns the long-dead icon is a favourite with the crew.

‘Used to eat fried bacon with peanut butter and banana sandwiches,' says Mick. ‘No wonder the poor bastard died when he did.'

At the mention of food, Tāne's belly rumbles and he wonders when they'll get to eat. Reading his mind, Mick says, ‘No breakfast for a while yet, boy. Not until the work's done, then we'll have a nice cuppa tea.' He winks and Tāne hopes that he'll get more than a cup of tea. Right now he could eat a horse.

Once the music is turned up, it's like a switch has been flicked and the barge turns into a fully functioning factory. As the mussel lines are lifted from the water by a large winch, Jerry feeds them into a machine that strips the mussels off the ropes they've been growing on for eighteen months. As they come off the conveyor belt, Hector bags them. It's heavy work, and an overhead crane is used as each bag weighs about a thousand kilograms and they have to be stacked neatly on the barge's deck.

Tāne washes down and scrubs the buoys, which are almost as big as him and awkward to manoeuvre. Once the mussels are removed, he coils the barren ropes, crusty with saltwater and difficult to bend with crustaceans and barnacles clinging to them. He scrapes them off with a sharp knife, making them ready for the next time they're needed. His hands and fingers, cut by sharp bits of shell despite the gloves, sting from the saltwater.

Time flies by, and suddenly Tāne realises he has to use the bathroom. It's urgent, but no one has mentioned the word ‘toilet' or ‘lavatory' since he came on board. When he asks, Jerry tells him, ‘No dunny on this barge, mate. Just go over to the other side of the boat and piss there. She'll be right.'

By now he's desperate and doesn't care who sees him. He races over, braces himself and begins to pee. The relief is wonderful, until there's a gust of wind and a spray of urine splatters him. He hears the yelps of laughter, knows he's been had and thanks God he's wearing an oilskin. Hemi is laughing with the rest of them and calls out, ‘Lesson number one: never piss or spit into the wind, boy. Oh, and the head – the dunny – is that way,' and he points to the back of the barge where a small cabin stands isolated.

About nine o'clock, work stops and everyone piles into the galley where breakfast is waiting. Mick is the unofficial chef and he's been busy cooking sausages, bacon, eggs, tomatoes and toast. A shiny metal teapot you can see your reflection in sits off to one side, surrounded by enormous mugs with the names of the crew on them.

‘No fancy coffee on this barge,' says Hemi. ‘It's tea or nothing.'

The men sit down and Tāne loads up his plate. The first lot doesn't even hit the sides and he's back for more. No one's talking; they've gone quiet and are all looking at him.

‘Told ya he could eat,' says Hemi.

‘Kid's got hollow legs,' says Hector. ‘Never seen anyone enjoy Mick's cooking so much.'

Jerry pours the tea and Tāne has milk and three sugars. It tastes wonderful and he doesn't know why he's never drunk tea before.

Afterwards he gets to wash the dishes, stack them away in the cabinet above the sink and wipe down the table. Then it's back on deck and more cleaning and coiling of ropes and making sure the buoys are stacked ready for the next drop.

More than sixty bags are filled by midday, neatly packed onto the deck. It's time to go, but before
Aranui
casts off, Hector gives Tāne a fishing rod, shows him how to bait a hook and throw a line over the side. The slurry from the mussels has brought schools of snapper, and their silver shadows glint through the water. In seconds there's a tug, and the rod bends, almost touching the sea.

‘Got a big one,' says Jerry, and the men crowd around, waiting to see what's going to surface.

‘Beginner's luck,' says Hemi as the line screams out, and Tāne hangs on as though his hands are glued to the reel and his life depends on it. Jerry reaches over and tightens the drag and the boy reels the fish in, hoping the line doesn't snap. The muscles in his arms burn, his legs and back ache, but he ignores the discomfort and winds. Slowly the line comes up and with it the fish. It's huge, and when they weigh it later, it's 12 kilograms. ‘A real whopper,' says Hemi. ‘We'll have it for dinner tonight. Fish and chips.'

A photo is taken with Mick's instant camera and pinned to the wall in the galley. Over the weeks and months to come, Tāne will look at it a hundred times, and the thrill of that first catch never leaves him.

By early afternoon, the barge is back at the wharf, the mussels unloaded and on their way to the distributor.
Aranui
is scrubbed from bow to stern, the engine cleaned, oiled and checked, and all gear stowed in the aft cabin. Tāne is exhausted, and even the thought of dinner and fish and chips leaves him unmoved. Hemi drives home and just before they get there, reaches over and pats the boy on the shoulder. ‘Good work today. You did okay.'

Tāne is too tired to reply, but inside, a part of him that had been lost for a long time comes out of hiding and smiles.

He eats his fish and chips that night but almost falls asleep at the table. When he goes to bed immediately afterwards, he's asleep before his head hits the pillow.

The next thing he knows it's three thirty a.m. and time to get up. Tāne looks at the bed and finds he hasn't moved all night, and it's just a case of pulling up the blankets and smoothing them flat.

Like the day before, it's raining, but this time the wind is blowing and the waves blow over the bow of the
Aranui
as she ploughs her way out to sea.

‘Do you get seasick?' asks Hemi. The boy shakes his head, ignorant of whether he does or not.

The barge drops anchor and work begins, but the sea is so choppy water slops over the bow and there's a rocking motion that is sometimes side to side and sometimes up and down. Tāne finds he has good sea legs and the peculiar motion doesn't bother him. At breakfast he eats quickly and the rest of the crew watch in case he goes green and makes a run for the side. But he doesn't, and there's silent agreement among them: he's worth keeping.

Jerry's five-year-old daughter is having a birthday party at the weekend and Hector is going to Auckland to visit his whānau in Manurewa. Mick's wife is pregnant; he's thinking of buying a new house, and on Saturday he and his wife are going house­ hunting. ‘You got any family?' Jerry asks.

Tāne thinks about his old man and the beatings whenever he came home. He thinks about his mother, stoned on P day and night, no food in the cupboards, and having to look after his little brothers and sister. He hangs his head, and the food he's just eaten feels like a ball in his stomach. ‘Nah, not really,' he says, and out of nowhere his throat closes over and tears blur his vision. He tries to brush them away but the more he tries, the worse it gets. They run down his face and he tastes the saltiness of them on his tongue.

There's an embarrassed silence, then Hemi hands him a handkerchief, tattered but clean. ‘Bloody stupid question to ask the boy.' He glares at Jerry. ‘You're one of our family now boy, so all that's in the past. Now come on and clear the table. Time's wasting and we've got mussels to harvest!'

As they leave the galley, the men pat Tāne on the back.

‘Sorry mate,' says Jerry. ‘I didn't realise things were that bad.'

‘One of us now,' says Hector.

Mick just pats him and points to the tatty handkerchief Tāne's still clutching. ‘I'd get rid of that before you get plague,' he says. And the savage moments of remembrance and the past become shadows; memories without substance.

The bacon bones I'd bought from the supermarket on Friday, for two dollars a packet, simmered on the stove while Sammy and me went to buy some veggies. The vegetable stand on Portage Road sold seconds; they would add flavour and nutrients to the broth. Cars passed us by as we walked hand in hand along the road. Some had whole families in them, with a happy looking mum and dad in the front and smiley-faced children strapped in their safety seats in the back. In others, couples chatted to one another; some cars only held the driver. However many people the cars held, they were all on their way to somewhere. Perhaps they were only going home, but all of them appeared to be enjoying their journeys.

For five dollars, I bought a 500g bag of misshapen carrots, a 500g bag of withered parsnips, some deformed onions, and a kilo of munted runner beans. I'd planned to add all these to the meat from the bacon bones. Carefully measured out rice, lentils and pearl barley would add bulk. With salt to taste, we'd have a delicious, wholesome and nutritious soup for seven dollars. The soup would be enough to last us for the next three days, until the family benefit payment on Tuesday. From out of the help-yourself bin, I chose a bag of spotted apples. With the spots cut out and then washed, peeled and stewed, they'd make a nice addition to the Weet-bix Sammy had some mornings.

‘Hungry Sam?'

‘Mmm.'

I scraped the bitter skin off a carrot. When I had finished scraping all the bitterness away, I handed it to Sammy ‘Here you are, Sam, have this now and when we get back we'll finish making the soup. Then I'll make some bread and we'll have a yummy dinner. Okay?'

He nodded because his mouth was full of chewed-up carrot. I slung the canvas strap of my backpack over my shoulder and reached Sammy's hand. He changed the carrot to his left hand and slipped the other into mine.

He squeezed four times,
Do you love me?
I squeezed back three,
Yes I do
. Two more from him,
How much?
We squeezed together. Tighter and tighter, and we never let go. Tighter and tighter, never letting go. That's how much. And that's how we walked along the road towards the house we lived in.

Earlier, I'd spotted some pūhā growing beneath a hedge. I picked it. It filled the plastic bag I carried. I would cook this as soon as we got back. Maybe we would go to the beach by bus on Sunday, and maybe we'd get some mussels. I'd make each of us a sandwich and maybe we'd have a picnic. We'd take cordial to drink. We'd stay at the beach all day and then come back on the last bus. We would have a good day. Then, when we got back, I would steam the mussels and mix them with the pūhā to make toroī.

A car was parked in our driveway.

I breathed in the smoky bacon air that drifted to the door as I opened it. I swallowed the saliva that trickled into my mouth. I thought hard not to be hungry, but the baby inside me controlled the thinking in the hungry part of my brain. Lionel was there and two of his mates were with him. They sat at the table. The pot of bones was in the centre. The three of them tore at the flesh and ripped it off the bones with their teeth, then they sucked at those bones and licked their greasy fingers. Bacon juice and grease ran out of their bulging mouths and soaked into their already stained tee-shirts, adding more stains to the rest of the bits of filth on them. The pot was empty. Only the water remained.

‘The f… you staring at Mrs and where the f… you been? What the f…s this shit. A man wants a f…en feed when he gets home, can't a man bring his mates home to a decent f…en feed. F…en dog bones. Think I'm a f…en dog ay bitch? I'll show you f…en dog.' He turned to Sammy. ‘F… off you little c…, get that little c… out of my face before I arsehole him into next f…en month. Eat up boys.'

‘Go to your room please Sam,' I said. ‘Read a book.'

‘Well f… me days, hear that boys? She says please to a f…en kid. I'll give you please Mrs. Now, would you please f… off.'

The boys had stopped eating and one of them stood up with his plate.

‘Where do you want me to put this, Mrs?' he said.

‘Leave the f…en thing right where it is mate. You didn't come here to do f…en bitch work. Don' be such a soft-cock. Leave it there. She'll make some f…en soup out of these. Always making f…en soup. A man wants a feed not f…en soup shit. Come on boys, we got places to go, people to see.' To me, he said, ‘Got any money c…?'

‘No.'

‘F…en better not have. I find out you keeping money from me you'll know all a-f…en-bout it Mrs. Come on boys, let's go.'

I scrubbed and peeled and chopped the veggies. I put them into the water the bones had boiled in. I added the rice, the lentils and the pearl barley. Next I made some bread. Our meal was delicious. We would have the same for breakfast in the morning. And for lunch and for tea.

When I woke on Sunday, Lionel and a woman slept on the fold-down couch in the lounge.

And the pot was empty.

Tuesday morning's crescent day moon looked like the bowl of a silver spoon, and it had scooped hunks of boysenberry ripple ice-cream clouds out of the lilac-blue palette of the sky. The clouds slid away and then dissolved. A pale lemon hue lurked beneath the grey cloud mass further to the east as the sun struggled to arrive.

Another day off work for me. I'd used the bus fare money to buy food. The bosses at work were kind and understanding, and so were the people I worked with. I made up time by staying late when I could, and I worked through lunch most days.

But kindness, no matter how understanding it is, leads to questioning. It's like a conditional sort of care that you pay for by answering probing queries.

‘Are you sure you're all right, Maia?'

‘I'm fine, thanks.'

‘Where does your husband work again?'

‘…'

‘Maia, I don't mean to probe, but do you think maybe you need some help?'

‘With?'

And an assumption of spiritual lack.

‘Would you like to come to my church?'

‘No, thank you.'

Worst of all was the pity that led to charity disguised as generosity.

‘Oh Maia, silly me. I made too much meat loaf last night. I thought you'd like …'

‘No thank you.'

‘Maia, I've had a clean out of my wardrobe, there's still lots of wear in these. You might like them.'

‘No thank you.'

Lionel always thought the worst. ‘How come those bastards give you so much time off work? Are you rooting the boss? How do I know that bastard over there is mine and that one in your guts? And the other bastard down South, how can I be sure?'

Once I tried to answer the questions he asked, but to him, that meant I was arguing and answering back, and that deserved a backhand or two.

Whack, smack, thwack. Don't answer back.

So I went to work and kept my mouth shut about what went on at our house. And I kept my mouth shut about the kindnesses shown to me by the people at work.

At ten o'clock the sun still hadn't fully entered the day, and it looked like it wasn't going to, but we walked to town anyway. We had to go to the Post Office to cash the family benefit voucher. We needed food.

As we walked along the street, curtains twitched at the windows, and further along, a woman came to check her mailbox. All the oblong houses in this new suburb squatted on neatly trimmed lawns, and sharp-edged gardens boasted plump rainbow-coloured flowers. Straight white footpaths led to gleaming front steps that led to solid wooden doors that were always shut, and where the gargoyled brass door knockers did pūkana.

At first, the people in the street seemed friendly, and the lady in the corner house even brought a cake over.

‘To welcome you and your family to the street.'

‘F… off with your cake,' Lionel had said. ‘Or I'll ram it up your fat white arse.'

That was five years ago. They didn't seem to want to be friendly any more. Which was just as well for them. And me. Even aunty Jo and uncle Barry made sure Lionel was out before they visited. Once I saw them drive away without coming up the drive, and later that night, aunty rung. They understood.

‘Just because we live in this poncey-arsed neighbourhood, it doesn't mean we have to be friends with these poncey-arsed poofters. You wanted to live here. You just remember that. And your family can f… off too. And in case you're thinking about f…ing off, don't you dare, I'll hunt you down and when I find you, you'll be sorry.'

One day, aunty and uncle were just leaving as Lionel returned. He waited for them to leave. That time, I couldn't go to work for seven days. I nearly lost Sammy. In the end, I had to take maternity leave two weeks before I'd planned to. We nearly lost the house, but aunty gave me some money.

‘Pay it back when you can,' she said.

I returned to work as soon as I could after Sammy was born. We couldn't live on what Lionel made. Then Lionel left the car factory, then he left the aluminium factory, then the biscuit factory, the plant nursery, the car wreckers, the job at the dump and the rubbish collection round. A single man's dole with an address elsewhere ensured an income to pay for the life and mates he'd begun to enjoy, but it wasn't enough to maintain the habits he'd formed, and by the time Sammy was three years old, I was working to pay for Lionel's habit. And the mortgage. And our living. Sammy stayed with aunty and uncle for a while, but then one night Lionel went over to get him. Not because he cared about Sammy. Because he didn't. And he didn't want him to be happy with aunty and uncle. Didn't want aunty and uncle to be happy with Sammy. He just wanted to make everyone miserable.

‘F… you bastards are miserable looking c…s, makes a man's heart glad to see so much misery.'

The weak sunlight that passed through the gaps in the clouds had little warmth to throw down at us, but at least there was no wind. We wore our warm coats, and the woollen scarves and hats I'd knitted. He skipped ahead; he stopped when we needed to cross roads, and he waited for me to catch up. We crossed together. On the railway bridge, we stopped to watch the trains coming in and out of the station. And then we continued on our way to town.

At the bakery, I bought Sammy a bun. It looked like an elongated lump of dark kauri gum. It was dusted with white icing sugar. It had a split down the middle filled with a thick frilled piping of fresh whipped cream, and had a blob of red jam plopped in the centre. We sat on the bench seat outside the police station, because that was the warmest spot in the shopping centre. So that is where we sat while Sammy ate his bun.

A greedy child will rip a bag open. Tear at the food. Cram it into its mouth and two chews later will gulp it down. Two more chews later the food will be gone. The child will lick the inside of the packet and then lick his fingers. He will ask for more. And it may be given to him to keep the peace, because it was given to him another time when he played up.

A hungry child will eat quickly. The need to feed requires the immediacy of the sugared fix that gratification demands. He will hope for more. But will not ask for more. For he has asked once before and was slapped.

A child who is often hungry will open the paper bag carefully. An anticipatory lump of saliva will slip down his throat and moisten it for the pleasure to come. The child will slide the bun out of the bag. He will focus his eyes and his mind on this drawn-out task. Slowly, slowly with a steady hand so the icing sugar won't fall off, and the jam won't stick to the inside of the paper packet; slowly, slowly because the bun is bigger than the four-year-old hand that eases it out. He will place the bun on the packet that he has flattened smooth with the other hand and spread out on his lap. He will run his finger along the cream and scrape it up and take some of the red jam too. He will hesitate then, and look at his mother. He will offer her the red and cream morsel at the tip of his finger. She will shake her head. ‘It's yours,' she will say.

Sammy placed his creamy jammed finger in his mouth and closed his eyes.

‘Good Sam?'

‘Mmmm.'

When the cream was all gone, he broke the bun in half along the split. He pointed one half at me and raised his eyebrows.

‘You have it Sam, you eat it all up.'

On our way to the supermarket, we stopped to look at the teddy bear display at the chemist's.

‘Look, Sam, there's the father bear, the mother bear and the baby bear having their breakfast.'

‘And look, there's me and there's you,' Sammy said.

As we stood at the window I saw our reflection. A
Help wanted
sign was beneath us.

‘It is too,' I said.

‘And look,' said Sammy. ‘The mother is holding the baby bear's hand, she must be squeezing it so the father bear can't see them saying how much.'

‘Yes Sam, she must be,' I said.

‘And then, later, the mother bear and the baby bear are going on the bus to the beach and maybe they'll have a picnic.'

‘I'm sure they will, Sam.'

‘And maybe they'll see us and say, “Come and have a picnic with us.” Can we, if they ask?'

‘Yes, we most certainly will.'

There was some urgent business I needed to attend to. When that was done, we did our shopping.

At the New World supermarket, I bought one bag of beef soup bones for two dollars, one bag of chicken frames for two dollars, four fish heads for two dollars and a piece of liver for ninety-five cents. I bought a packet of Weet-bix, a bag of flour, a loaf of bread and a tub of margarine. That should last us until Friday. At the Salvation Army store, I bought a singlet and a pair of woollen socks for Sammy. I bought a huge bag of carpet wool that looked enough to make two jerseys for Sammy for the winter to come. I'd crochet the leftovers into squares and stitch them together for the blanket I was making for the baby.