A Character
Of My Early Youth

by Arthur Couch

One so often reads of great men of letters or science, acclaimed by their fellow countrymen and men of other nations, but do we ever stop and think of friends, humble people, who to those who knew them were mighty people and looked up to as leaders in their own villages. History may show their names as having participated in a Treaty signing or as having been a participant in a debate at which a Government representative was present—nothing more. They just pass on into obscurity, not even known by their great grandchildren or those two generations after them. Because I would like him to be remembered as I knew him, I write this short record of one such great man of our village.

I refer to Teone Watene, born somewhere in Southland, but the greater part of his life lived in our village of Rapaki, situated three miles further up the harbour from Lyttelton. I do not remember his wife, but did know his four children, two boys and two girls. Johnny Watson, as he was known to us youngsters and his many Pakeha friends, was a big man. In one of his stories he spoke of a big Maori chief who, with one sweep of his taiaha, could kill twenty men. He could have fitted this chief. At huis he was a wonderful figure, walking up and down on the marae, tokotoko often clasped in both bands, speaking to his people in our native tongue. These orations often exceeded the hour. If it was a tangi Johnny would quote passage after passage from the Bible. The marvel of this was that he could neither read nor write. It was the custom in those early days, immediately the church bell rang, for all work to cease, and the villagers would go to the service, irrespective of whom the preacher was. Obviously, Johnny's very retentive mind had absorbed all that he heard.

Let me here tell you how our elders respected the Sabbath. Friends from Lyttelton were camped on the beach for the weekend. Two sons arrived with a football on the Sunday afternoon. Our playing area was by our hall. That ball was not kicked more than three or four times before one of our kuias arrived stick in hand. Poor Doug and Roland made a hasty retreat to the beach. I wonder can these two brothers remember this?

Johnny loved to play cards, euchre or cribbage, and it was quite common for us young folk to fall foul of our mothers by being at Johnny's home learning either game, when we should have been at home helping our Mums or having our tea. It was during these times, too, that Johnny would tell us such thrilling stories of his young days.

I shall relate two of his stories:—

Human transplants were known to the Maoris some time before his Pakeha brother brought them into practice. Johnny was with a gang felling trees in Southland, when one of the men fell on his axe. The axe was razor sharp and the angle of the fall almost disembowelled the man. Despairing for his friend's life, one member set off for help, but on emerging from the bush, spotted sheep grazing near by. Skill and cunning resulted in that flock being reduced by one.

This was taken back into the bush and a stomach transplant performed. Kiekie flax, which grew nearby, was used to complete the operation. This proved so successful that in two months the injured man was back in the bush. One day he really felt he had to

relieve himself, so took cover behind a bunch of scrub. Imagine his friend's surprise and amazement when he returned carrying a set of twin lambs!

The next concerns our own village and the perfect cone-shaped hill overlooking us. A big hui was being held in Rapaki. The problem of providing a suitable pudding was discussed. It was decided to make a big plum duff. The fire was made ready, and the biggest pot produced. This could contain the two hundred pound bag of flour. All the ingredients were added, including one large tin of baking powder. After vigorous stirring, all was ready, and the lid placed on the pot. The men then returned to the hall, but not for long; the children saw the lid fall off the pot and the plum duff rising and spreading rapidly. They called the men, but nothing could stop that pudding from completing its destiny. Thus we have our cone-shaped hill watching over us—Tamatea, erroneously known as Mahuraki.

Johnny loved his drop of beer and on ‘pension day’ he would harness up his old white horse to his trap, and off to Lyttelton they would go. Late on these afternoons they would be seen slowly walking home with Johnny in his seat, reins in hand—fast asleep. His good friends in Lyttelton, including the publican, would successfully manoeuvre Johnny aboard his trap, turn the horse about, and set them for home. The horse never once failed him.

The Koskela brothers were two Lyttelton fishermen who fished into our beach for many years. I remember them first with one rowing boat, then a motor was installed and, later, with two boats. During the rowing and one motor boat era, Johnny would always be on the beach to collect the unwanted fish—rig, elephant fish, red cod, and sometimes a feed of flounders. Johnny would clear the beach of rocks and seaweed where he estimated the net would finally land, or he would take over the pulling in of the net. If not at school, I would sometimes be on the beach too, and, like all boys, not being satisfied with the red cod, I would try to sneak a flounder and would cover it with seaweed, or hastily dig a hole in the sand with my feet. If the tide was coming in and the reloading of the boat took too long, I would lose my flounder. Size mattered little to me in those days.

Quite frequently, I would accompany Johnny along the foreshore at low water in quest of sea foods. He always carried a gaff to be used on any unwary conger eel or paua too deep to be reached by hand. I learned of many conger holes during these excursions. He loved to go fishing at night. If a boat was available, he would take the older boys out, often crossing Quail Island or the Lighthouse Reef. Mum would sometimes allow me to be in the party if it was on the rocks handy. How I loved this experience. We never returned empty-handed.

When the rigs—toothless sharks—were particularly active on the mudflats in Governors Bay, Johnny would lead a party armed with spears, gaffs and gorse knives into the attack. Should a dogfish—this possessed teeth and was unpleasant to the taste—or stingray venture too close, it would be in danger of losing its tail. The rigs would be brought home, the centre bone removed, cut down the middle to within an inch of the tail end, salted and peppered to combat flies, and thrown over a wire fence to dry for winter food. It was tough, but I enjoyed chewing “dried shark”. All the travelling was by horse and trap or bicycle for the younger men.

In his younger days Johnny was a first class shearer. He was well-known in sheds owned by Gardiners of Purau, Mortons (later Scotts) of Heathcote, Kinloch Station of Little River, Dick Morton of Motukarara, McAlpine of Craigieburn and Mt White Station. I think Johnny loved Dick Morton's of Motukarara best as it was so close to the big swamp we so often visited, being sure of a good supply of eels. This swamp has now been drained and turned into productive farm land.

I must tell you of two more stories both connected with this part of the country:—

Johnny and his team of shearers were on their way to Kinloch Station when, on approaching the corner which is the turn-off for the seaward end of Lake Forsyth and the big straight into Little River, the taipos

(spirits) of the many Maoris buried in the caves about here frightened their horses which stood petrified. Johnny, knowing the cause and cure, dismounted, took off his shirt and set it on fire. This smoke drove off the taipos and Johnny and his team drove on to Little River.

The next concerns a beautiful spring which flows through a paddock about one mile from the present shop and petrol bowser on the main road at Motukarara. It was always possible to spear a few eels along the banks of this spring. Johnny, his son Lu and another youth arrived there in quest of eels. On the good spearing side of the culvert there were no eels, but on the other side, with a gravel bottom, were seen dozens. As it was unsuitable for spearing, Johnny solved the problem by tying the bottoms of his trousers, loosening his belt and undoing his shirt front. He then stepped into the water and told the boys to start the eels through. Johnny lay down with his head in the culvert. Within minutes he called to the boys to stop, and climbed out with eels bulging all around him. These were duly placed in a sack and the process repeated until all the eels were caught.

We still visit this spring, hoping for eels, but these too, like the fish in our harbour, are very scarce. There is usually a good supply of lovely watercress.

As I wrote earlier, Johnny was a wonderful orator, an inspiration I am sure to one who later became our member of Parliament. It was customary at huis for all to speak in our Maori tongue on any subject of interest to our people. Jimmy Tregurthen, later to become Sir Eruera Tirikatene, was one of the young men who did this and, no doubt from his listening and perseverance, developed into one of the greatest of our Maori orators. So many of us listened only. Our great and sad loss.

Johnny lived to the ripe old age of 94, and, though a true Ngaitahu, joined his brethren of other races on 29 August, 1934. His resting place is in the grounds surrounding the church in which he loved to worship.

Big Brother
Little Sister

by Witi Ihimaera

Hema was half-way down the street and running fast, when he heard his little sister yelling after him.

‘Hema! Wait for me!’

He turned and saw her appearing out of the dark street, and her shadow grew long and extended toward him as she passed under the solitary street light. She had put a jersey and old jeans over her pyjamas, but the edges still showed underneath. In her hands, she was carrying her sandals.

‘What do you want?’ he growled. He turned his face away from her so she couldn't see he was crying.

‘I'm coming too,’ Janey said. ‘Hang on.’ She bent down and began putting her sandals on.

‘But you can't come with me,’ Hema told her. ‘You'll be a nuisance. You're too young.’

‘I am not!’ Janey flared, and she stood as tall as her seven years would allow her. ‘And I'm coming, so there! You might need me.’ She clutched his hand tightly, but he pushed her away and began to run, down the long dark street toward Newtown. Behind him, he heard Janey's short legs drumming after.

‘You just wait for me, Hema!’ she screamed. ‘Don't leave me behind, I'll tell on you!’

He turned. ‘You just go back home, Janey,’ he yelled. ‘Stop following me!’

‘No!’

‘You're too small to come with me. I'll give you a hiding! Look …’ He picked up a stone and pretended to throw it. Janey ducked behind a lamp post. Then her face looked out, and she was crying.

‘Now go home!’ Hema yelled.

He turned down the street again. Behind him, he heard Janey scream. He looked back and she stopped, smiling at him. But when he turned round, she screamed again. He sighed.

‘All right, you cunning thing,’ he said. ‘You can come!’

Janey ran up to him and grinned cheekily at him.

‘I knew you wouldn't leave me behind,’ she said as she put her hand in his.

Janey and Hema had been in bed for a long time, but the sound of the crash had awoken them. They slept in the same bed because the flat was too small.

‘Hema …’ Janey had whispered, sacred.

‘It's all right,’ Hema answered. He'd strained his ears and heard more sounds. Then a crack of light had appeared under the closed door. Mum and Dad were back from the party. They were quarrelling again.

‘Don't you answer me back, Wiki!’ Dad was saying. ‘Don't you tell me what I can't do.’

‘You don't own me,’ Mum screamed, and her voice was shrill with anger. ‘Go on, go back to that black bitch, you and her are made for each other, fat and ugly.’

‘You want me to go? I'll be bloody glad to go!’

‘Yeah, go,’ Mum had yelled. ‘I'll even pack your clothes for you. And don't come back either! The quicker you get out the better.’

A door had slammed, and Hema had

heard Mum sobbing on the other side of the thin wall.

‘The bastard, the bastard … I'll show him …”

‘I'm scared, Hema,’ Janey had whispered.

But he'd hushed her, and heard Mum dialling a number on the telephone.

‘Taxis? Could I have a taxi please?’

‘Can't wait to get rid of me, can you!’ Dad had yelled.

‘You're bloody right!’ Mum had answered. Then she'd dialled another number.

‘Is that you Pera?’

And at the sound of that name, the fighting had begun.

‘Who's that you're ringing, Wiki … I heard who you were ringing …’

‘You're hurting me, you're hurting me …’

‘You been playing around behind my back, ay Wiki? AY?’

‘As if you care, as if you care a damn what I do, about your kids, about me. You don't care! You're always too busy at the Tramways, or your parties, to care!’

‘Has he been coming here then, ay Wiki?’

‘Stop, you're hurting …’

And Janey had clutched Hema tightly and begun to cry. In the other room, they'd heard Mum whimpering and the heavy, menacing sounds of Dad. Then, the terrifying, harsh sounds of Mum whispering.

‘You're … choking … me … Go on … then … See if I … care …’

‘NO!’ Hema had yelled. He'd run into the other room and grabbed at his father.

‘Dad! Dad!’

And Janey had come and pulled at Dad too.

‘You just leave Mum alone! You just leave her alone!’

And somehow, they'd loosened their father's grip from Mum's throat. He'd stood up, had been silent for a while, then lurched out of the room, out of the flat. He'd never returned.

Then Uncle Pera had come to stay. That was when Hema had decided to run away.

‘I want a mimi,’ Janey said.

Hema sighed. ‘I knew you'd be a nuisance.’

Janey lowered her head. ‘I can't help it,’ she sniffed, as she squirmed and fidgeted.

‘Come on then,’ Hema said. ‘We'll find you a ladies' lav.’

They'd gotten as far as the Wellington Hospital. Newtown had been busy because it was Friday night. It was still early, not yet half past seven, and they had plenty of time. As usual, Mum and Uncle Pera had gone to the pub, and afterward, they'd be going to a party. So there was still a long time before Hema and Janey would be missed. But they wouldn't be missed … Mum would probably be glad that they'd gone. She didn't love them any more.

Hema pressed his lips close together. He had to be brave, and boys weren't supposed to cry.

‘I can't hold it, Hema,’ Janey whispered.

‘Hang on,’ he answered. He looked around, desperately. ‘You can't have a mimi here, people will see.’ He grabbed her hand and pulled her quickly after him, along the road and round the corner into John Street. He'd decided to go this way, because if they kept to the main road, they'd have to go past the Tramways, and they might just bump into Mum coming out of the pub.

‘Hema …’ Janey wailed.

‘Almost there,’ he answered. ‘See? There's some trees at the corner. You go in there and have your mimi.’

They crossed the road. Hema looked round, to make sure that no cars or people were coming.

‘All right, it's safe now.’

Janey disappeared. Hema kept a look out. Every now and then, Janey would whisper from the bushes. ‘Hema, are you still there?’

‘I'm still here,’ he would answer. ‘Hurry up!’

And finally, Janey returned, hitching up her pants. Some of her mimi had dripped on them.

“Eeee!’ Hema grinned, pointing to the stains. He helped her tuck her clothes in, and brushed her down.

‘I couldn't help it,’ Janey said. ‘You told me to hurry!’

But Hema just grinned again, and took her hand. Quickly, they walked along the road. Every now and then, a car would rush past, going into Wellington. One car stopped just in front of them and some people got

out, climbed some steps, and disappeared into a lighted house. All along the street, the lights from the houses shone down upon them.

‘Where we going?’ Janey asked after a while.

Hema shrugged his shoulders helplessly. He'd previously thought of going to the railway station and getting a ticket for Taumarunui. That was where Mum came from, where his Nanny George lived. He'd had enough money for the train saved up, but now that Janey was with him, he knew that the money wouldn't stretch to buying two tickets. Maybe, he could put Janey on the train. Somehow, he would follow after her. Maybe … He made up his mind. Yes, he'd still head for the railway station. There was nowhere else to go.

‘Where we going!’ Janey asked again, persistently. He told her, and she gasped. ‘Are we going to walk all the way? All the way, Hema?’

He nodded.

‘It's not that far,’ he told his sister. ‘If you get tired, I'll give you a piggy-back. We'll manage. It's only to the railway station.’

‘I won't be tired,’ Janey told him.

Hema smiled at her. Janey smiled back. Their happiness made their feet light as they walked past the lighted windows, the rows of singing windows, toward the city.

Hema hadn't known why or when he had begun to dislike Uncle Pera. Most times, Uncle Pera took no notice of him and Janey; and Mum used to hurry up and get them their tea before he got home. If she was running late, Hema would have to dress Janey for bed himself, and he couldn't help feeling that Mum was pushing them further

and further away from her. He'd hoped, at first, that Dad would come back. He'd missed his father, and Janey had been confused about the strange man who had come to live with them. For a time she used to ask Mum when Dad was coming back. As time went by, she stopped asking, not because she had forgotten him, but because she began to understand that Mum didn't want to be reminded of him.

If Uncle Pera had been older, maybe Hema would have grown to like him. But he was much younger than Dad had been, and even younger than Mum. Somehow, Hema had the feeling that this was wrong. He couldn't trust this man, and he felt that some day, he would leave Mum too. Yet, he made Mum happy and that was all that mattered. Better not to think of a day when Uncle Pera might leave. As long as Mum was happy, he would be happy for her sake.

But Hema knew that even Mum was afraid that one day Uncle Pera might leave her. He saw it in her eyes and the little nervous things she did. He laughter, when Uncle Pera was home, seemed twice as loud as it should have been; her attempts at being casual, remained simply, attempts. Uncle Pera could twist their mother around his young finger if he wanted to, and he knew it. His was a silent kind of arrogance, making no demands, confident in the knowledge that these had already been anticipated by his woman, their mother.

His first frown when Janey had wanted to be held by her mother, set the pattern for her later attitude toward them. When Janey went to her mother the second time, Mum pushed her away. And Janey learned when Uncle Pera was around, that she was not wanted, that she should make no demands on her mother.

Uncle Pera's silence at the dinner table one night, also changed a routine they'd been accustomed to. They began to have dinner before he came home, and would be watching television when he had dinner. Afterward, when he and Mum came to watch, Hema would only be aware of their mother's anxious glances in their direction. Sometimes, they'd be allowed to stay. Other times, Hema would understand his mother's pleading silence. Then he would take Janey by the hand and they would go to bed.

The happiest times for the two children were in the mornings after Uncle Pera had gone to work and Mum was getting them ready for school. In the mornings, their mother always kissed them.

If she had been a stronger woman, she would have been able to make Uncle Pera understand that her children also meant much to her. But she was not a strong woman, nor was she independent. Her life began to revolve more around this new man, circling away from Hema and Janey. Uncle Pera seemed not to remember that this woman had children; he would tell her to come out with him and she would go.

‘Look after your sister,’ she would tell Hema.

They were often left alone at night. Uncle Pera liked to go out. Although Hema was often hurt, he would think of his mother and see her looking at him, pleading with him to understand.

Even when their father had been home, Hema had known that he must look after Janey. When Uncle Pera came to stay, things were no different except that looking after his sister became less of a duty and more something to cling to and never let go. Mum had Uncle Pera. They only had each other. And they grew to understand this on those long, dark nights when they were left alone together; that lighted windows were not for them.

‘Can I have a rest now?’ Janey looked up at her brother. ‘My feet are sore, Hema.’

They had come down Taranaki Street and were almost at Manners Sereet, where the pigeon park was.

‘Okay,’ Hema answered. ‘We'll just go across the road and sit on one of those chairs over there, ay?’

Janey nodded. Together, they walked to the pedestrian crossing and waited at the lights. A lot of other people were waiting there too. The road was busy with traffic.

‘Don't you let go of my hand,’ Hema said. Janey held it tighter. The lights changed, and the “Cross Now” signal buzzed. Hema waited just a second, letting the other people

cross before them, then said, ‘Come on!’

They ran across the road.

‘Let me have a look at your feet,’ Hema said when they were sitting on a bench.

Janey put them on the bench, and Hema took her sandals off. In one of them, he found a small sharp stone, and saw that it had bruised his sister's heel. He rubbed it.

‘All better now,’ he said.

‘Yes, all better,’ Janey repeated. She put her sandals on again.

For a while, they were silent and just watched the people walking past and the traffic zooming through the streets. Further along from them, on another seat, an old man sat, his head hunched between his legs. The ground was stained with his vomit and the broken glass of a beer flagon. A group of girls walked past him and giggled behind their hands. They giggled again, when they passed Hema and Janey.

‘I like your maxi coat,’ one of the girls said. The others laughed.

Hema flushed. But he didn't care; his coat was a good one and kept him warm.

And then he saw a policeman coming.

‘We better go now,’ he told Janey. Hurriedly, they stood up and began moving away. But the policeman didn't seem to worry about them. He went straight to the drunken man and began shaking him.

Hema slowed his steps and his heart stopped beating so fast. He and Janey reached the bus stop outside the Royal Oak. Janey pulled at his sleeve and pointed to a bus, but he shook his head.

‘We haven't got enough money,’ he said.

‘I've got some!’ Janey answered.

‘You have?’ Hema said, astonished.

Janey nodded vigorously. She reached into a pocket and showed him. ‘I'm not dumb!’

Nine cents … nine brown cents, were in her palm.

‘No, you're not dumb,’ Hema whispered to his sister. ‘But you better keep them for later, just in case, ay? It's not far to the railway station from here. Okay?’

Janey smiled, a brilliant, proud smile. She put the coins back in her pocket.

‘I'll bet you're glad now that I came along with you, ay Hema!’ she said.

He nodded. ‘Now take my hand again,’ he said. ‘There's lots of people around, and I don't want you to get lost. If you lose my hand, you just stop where you are and don't move. I'll find you.”

‘Okay,’ Janey answered simply.

‘Come on, then,’ Hema said.

Hema walked in front of his sister. Although he was quite tall, many of the people couldn't see him and buffeted against him. But he didn't mind; as long as he felt his sister's hand in his, everything was all right.

‘Hand on!’ he said, as they joined the stream of people crossing the intersection at Cuba Street. And he pushed through the people dragging his sister behind him. Janey clung tightly to him, and her fingernails dug into his arm.

Along Manners Street they went, and it was much easier there and in Willis Street. But then they came to another intersection, and a thick crowd was waiting to cross.

‘Hold tight,’ Hema whispered again.

Janey looked up at him and nodded. She was a little frightened. Couldn't these people see her down here?

Then the lights changed, and the tide of people began to move. From the four corners of the crossing they came, merging in the middle, jostling, shoving, pushing their ways across the road.

And the heavy weight of a man crossing Hema's path slammed him to one side, wrenching Janey's hand away from his.

‘Janey!’ he yelled.

He looked back and glimpsed her face in the rushing crowd. He tried to get back to her, yelling ‘Janey!’, but the crowd pushed and shoved him to the pavement. Frantically, he clawed his way through the melee.

‘Let me through! Let me through!’

And he saw the stragglers dashing across the road, the lights changing, the cars beginning to move.

And Janey, she was standing there, alone, in the middle of the road.

‘JANEY!’

She heard him calling and looked at him, her eyes full of trust. And he rushed out from the pavement, and put his arms tightly round her. He heard horns blaring and honk-

ing, and the shouted oaths of a driver, but he didn't care. He picked Janey up in his arms and carried her to the pavement.

‘Janey …’

He heard a man saying that kids shouldn't be out at this time of night, and he felt the eyes of curious onlookers boring into him. Then the stream of people began to move again.

Yet Hema still clutched his little sister tightly. And Janey looked up at him.

‘You told me to stay right where I was if I lost your hand,’ she said. ‘So I did.’

Hema looked down at her.

‘You did right,’ he said. ‘But next time you get lost, I'm going to give you a good hiding!’

It wouldn't have been so bad if Mum had made her children understand that there were some things they could do or couldn't do, now that Uncle Pera had come to stay. But she didn't, and as the days passed, they were often confused, watching for any telltale sign, a frown, the flicker of a smile, which would signify to them whether a certain impulse or gesture would be accepted or not, whether it would be rejected or condoned. Sometimes, they would make the wrong appraisal and be repulsed by their mother. Other times, things would be all right, and Uncle Pera in a happy mood, and he would beckon Janey to come and sit in his lap. Then their mother would also be happy, although her anxiety would now and then flash darkly in her eyes.

Hema remembered that they did have happy times together; their mother, themselves and Uncle Pera. They were like sudden shafts of laughter, chasing away an anxious silence, like the time that Uncle Pera took them all to Eastbourne to the beach. But there were not many of those happy times.

What hurt most, was that Mum began to change, in small ways at first, but finally so much, that her children could never understand her moods. At one moment she would kiss them, the next moment, lash out at them with a harsh word or hand.

Once, Hema had returned home late from school and his mother had asked him to find Janey and told him that she'd been naughty and Mum had hit her. Hema had known instantly where Janey would be. He'd gone into their bedroom and sure enough, he had heard her crying beneath the bed. Whenever she felt sad or wanted to have a little cry, Janey always crawled under the bed, so no-one would hear.

‘Come out, Janey,’ he said. ‘I know you're under there.’

‘I'm not,’ his sister had replied. ‘Go away!’

‘If you won't come out, I'm coming to join you,’ he'd replied. And he'd crawled under the bed and put his arms round her.

His sister resisted him at first, telling him to go away, but finally she turned into his arms and her hot tears brushed his cheeks.

‘What's wrong, ay?’ he asked gently.

‘She hit me … Mummy … ‘

‘Were you a bad girl then?’

‘No, I didn't do anything. Mummy, she hit me for nothing.’

And Janey had wept very hard.

‘She doesn't love us any more, does she Hema … ‘

‘Course she does. You're just being stupid.’

‘No she doesn't, Janey had whispered. ‘No she doesn't … ‘

And they stayed under the bed for a long time, holding each other very tightly.

But in spite of their mother's moods, the children still loved her. They kept clear of her when she was angry and when she didn't want them around; they tried to anticipate her needs, to make her happy. As long as their mother was happy, they were too.

Whenever Uncle Pera brought his mates to the house for a party, the children would clear up the debris when it had finished. They would sweep the floor, wash the glasses, stack all the flagons neatly in the kitchen and set the chairs in their places again. Sometimes, they would find their mother flaked out on a chair, her face haggard with beer.

‘Mum, come to bed, Mum,’ Hema would whisper. ‘Come on.’ And he would shake her gently. Her eyelids would flicker and then shut again.

Sometimes, Hema and Janey would be able to get her to bed. Other times, she'd be too blind drunk to move, so they would get some blankets and tuck them in around her.

And once their mother had looked at them and her face had screwed up with pain and she had said, perhaps to herself: ‘You kids are so good; I'm a funny mother to you fullas, ay … ‘

‘No you're not,’ her children had answered. ‘You're good, you're a good Mum.’

Their mother had said that they could go to the afternoon pictures the next Saturday because she'd been so funny to them. They had tried to look happy, but they'd known that in the morning. Mum would have forgotten her promise. They were used to it.

‘How much further, Hema?’

‘Not far to go,’ Hema said. ‘See? Almost there.’ He pointed ahead, to where the lights of the railway station were blazing.

‘Okay,’ Janey said. ‘You can let me down now.’

‘Are you sure?’ Hema asked. He had given her a piggy-back along Featherston Street because she'd been tired.

‘Yes,’ Janey answered. She slipped from his back and began to walk beside him. The railway station grew larger and taller. A taxi swept past them and stopped at the entrance. Some people got out, and the children followed them through the entrance.

The station was very crowded and noisy. It was half past eight and people were running or waiting to catch railway units back to their homes in the Hutt. Every now and then, the loudspeaker would crackle above the clamour announcing departure times, platform numbers, welcomes and farewells to passengers.

Hema found a seat for his sister.

‘You wait here,’ he told her.

‘Where you going?’ Janey asked.

‘Just over there,’ he answered, and he waved toward the ticket office. He told her he wouldn't be long, and joined one of the queues. Every now and then, he looked back to see that Janey was all right, and she smiled and waved to him. He hoped she wouldn't cry too much when he put her on the train. He'd decided that would be the best thing to do; somehow he'd find a way to follow after her. Would she know when to get off? It was a long way to Taumarunui. Never mind: he would find a nice lady wh owas travelling on the same train and ask her to look after Janey.

‘Yes?’ The voice boomed at Hema from over the counter, and a bored face looked down at him. Hema stood on his toes and put his money on the counter.

‘Please, can I have a ticket please, to Taumarunui.’

‘For where?’ the clerk asked him.

‘Please, Taumarunui.’

‘When for?’

‘Tonight, please.’

‘The train's already gone,’ the clerk said. Hema heard the words and all his plans,

his hopes died as he sank back on his heels.

‘Oh … ‘

‘Next train's tomorrow,’ the clerk said. He pushed the money back to Hema. ‘Anyway, you haven't got enough money here. Better tell your mother to come and get the ticket.’ He turned away from Hema. The queue moved forward.

Hema shuffled back to Janey. He'd never thought to find out when the train left Wellington.

‘What happened, Hema?’ Janey asked.

‘The train's already gone,’ he answered.

‘What do we do now, then?’

Hema shrugged his shoulders slightly. ‘There's plenty of time; I'll think of something,’ he said.

They sat together without speaking while the rush of people ebbed and flowed around them. Then Hema said:

‘Are you hungry?’

Janey gave him a guarded look. ‘How much money we got?’

‘Enough.’

‘Are you hungry too?’ Janey asked. ‘I'm not if you're not.’

‘Yes, I'm a little hungry.’

Janey thought for a while. ‘Well, we'll get a pie, and you can have half and I can have half, because I'm not very hungry either,’ she said. ‘I only got a small stomach anyway.’

They went into the station cafeteria and bought a pie. Then they found an empty seat out on the platform, and Hema divided the pie as best he could. They ate silently. When they had finished, Hema asked his sister if she'd like the mince which had fallen into the paper bag. She said she didn't, but he made her have it.

Afterward, the two children watched the units arriving and departing, arriving and departing, and the people rushing to and from the platforms.

And there was one brief incandescent moment, when Janey reached up and whispered in her brother's ear.

‘I wouldn't have gone without you, anyway,’ she said.

Mum had changed, withdrawing herself from Hema and Janey, and they grew closer to each other. Hema's friends became Janey's friends too, for she was always following him round. At school, he would be playing with his mates, and all of a sudden, Janey would be there. If she was alone, she would come and sit, watching him. Even if she was playing with her own friends, she would suddenly look up, alarmed, and search for him. If she could see him, she wasn't afraid. As long as he was somewhere, as long as he was there, that's all that mattered.

Sometimes, Hema used to get angry with her, especially at night when they were alone and Mum and Uncle Pera had gone out. Janey would follow him from room to room, silent and watchful.

‘You're always following me!’ he would yell. ‘Stop it!’

And once, he'd hidden from her, and she'd looked everywhere, screaming out his name: ‘Hema! HEMA!’

She'd started to cry, and he'd gone to her and said: ‘Don't cry. I'm here.’

They were often left to themselves. Uncle Pera would whisper to Mum, and she would say it was still light outside so why didn't they go and play, or that Hema must have some homework to do so he should do it and take Janey with him into the bedroom, or she'd give them some money and tell them to go to the shop and buy something.

Those were the moments, when their mother's motives were so transparent, that the children gew especially close because they were almost outcasts together.

Hema would say, ‘Come on, Janey. You want an ice cream?’ And even if she didn't, she'd say ‘Yes’ because that's what Mum wanted. So they would leave the house and wander dismally down to the shop, and lick half-heartedly at their ice creams. On such walks, they would often look up at the other houses along the street and watch through lighted windows. But that only made them yearn for something they were almost afraid to name … But they knew what it was all the same, and it was Uncle Pera who had taken it away.

Uncle Pera … He was the one to blame so Hema thought; and his thoughts grew, and finally, unleashed themselves.

They'd been sitting in the kitchen, Hema, Janey and Mum. Uncle Pera was not yet home. Mum had wanted them to hurry up with their kai, because she and Uncle Pera were going out that night. Then Uncle Pera had arrived, and he'd been angry that Mum wasn't ready.

‘Why don't you go out yourself!’ Hema had yelled. ‘Why don't you go and don't come back.’

‘Hema!’ Mum had yelled.

‘She doesn't want you,’ he continued. ‘We don't want you either, Janey and me. Go away.’

But Mum had not understood. She hadn't seen her son's rage, his tears; only this other man.

‘Get out!’ she'd screamed at Hema. ‘Go and sulk in your own room.’

‘No!’

‘Do as your mother says,’ Uncle Pera had said.

And Hema had faced this man and answered:

‘I don't take orders from you. You're not my father. And you,’ he'd said, looking at his mother, ‘you're not my mother either.’

Uncle Pera had grabbed him and pulled him along the corridor to his room. He'd shut the door, grabbed a belt.

Afterwards, Hema wept. And Mum had come in and whispered to him.

‘Don't interfere, son. You only get hurt.’

She'd reached out to caress him, but he'd turned away from her. After they'd gone, Janey had come and crawled beside him.

‘Don't you cry, Hema,’ she'd whispered. ‘Hema, don't you cry.’

Hema sighed, and the wind carried his sigh across the deserted platform. His movement disturbed Janey as she was sleeping, buttoned up in his long coat.

‘What's the time, Hema?’ she asked.

‘It's very late,’ he answered. He hushed her and told her to go back to sleep, but she roused herself.

‘I'm cold,’ she whispered.

He smiled at her, and cuddled her against his warmth. They sat like this for a long time; watched the flood of people become a trickle as the night had waned. Now, they were almost alone. Only a few others remained on the platform: a young girl and her boyfriend, an old man, and themselves, all derelict in the night.

A cold wind was blowing, and Janey shivered and moved closer into the warmth of her brother, hiding her eyes beneath the coat, away from the glare of the platform lights.

By now, Hema thought, Mum and Uncle Pera would be home. He wondered if he and Janey would be missed yet. Maybe Mum had gone straight to bed. It had been a long time since she had looked in to see them after returning home. But then, maybe, just this one time, she might look … might open the door upon an empty bed, not slept in. What would she do? Would she worry about them, or would she just simply shut the door again.

And what was he to do now? That was a big question which weighed heavily upon his small shoulders. If he'd been alone, he wouldn't have minded sleeping out. But he had Janey to look after, now and always. Always he would look after her. Always. He was her big brother, she was his little sister.

Janey stirred again. She rubbed her eyes and looked up at her brother.

‘We'll have to go back, won't we … ‘ she whispered.

Hema nodded. There seemed nothing else to do, but just go back. To Mum. To Uncle Pera.

‘We'll get a hiding, ay.’ his sister continued.

Hema smiled. ‘I suppose we will.’

‘I don't care, anyway,’ Janey sniffed. ‘We go now?’

‘No, not yet,’ he told his sister. ‘We just stay here for a little while longer.’ If they did, then maybe their mother would find them here and understand. If she looked for them, she'd find them. They'd be waiting.

And Janey snuggled close again, into him.

‘Wake me when she comes,’ she said.

‘I will,’ he promised.

‘And if she doesn't,’ his sister continued, ‘you won't leave me here, will you … You won't leave me, ay.’

‘No, I'll never leave you,’ Hema said.

Royal Visit to Turangawaewae

‘Wouldn't it be wonderful if we could have a member of the royal family to open the building!’ The remark was made some time ago, even before the sketch plans for the building were prepared. On 8 February that dream was fulfilled. People began arriving for the grand hui on 6 February, when final preparations for the visit were made. Next day the service of dedication took place, with a great gathering of clergy and elders of many tribes.

Like the previous day, Friday 8 February proved fine and sunny, and excitement mounted as the time drew near for the guests to arrive. Seats at vantage points were taken early in the morning, and the crowds were happy during the long wait, as they recalled the previous visit of Her Majesty the Queen and His Royal Highness the Duke of Edinburgh, and looked forward to seeing their daughter and her husband.

At last the sentinel shouted and the crowds of school children outside the gate cheered the arrival of the royal party. Escorted by the Prime Minister and Mrs Kirk, Mr Whatumoana Paki and Mr Tumokai Katipa, the visitors were challenged by Rev. Dave Manihera and welcomed by kaumatua and a young haka team as they made their way to the place of honour on the porch of Mahinarangi. After a prayer by His Grace the Archbishop of New Zealand and the National Anthem Henare Tuwhangai rose from beside the Arikinui and welcomed the guests. The Prime Minister replied, then the Hon. Matiu Rata, Minister of Maori Affairs, also spoke on behalf of the Arikinui and the people of Waikato, welcoming them to ‘the place which is the symbol of the pride of the people and their leaders in all that is worthy from their storied past, and which expresses too, the continuity of their heritage.’

He remarked that Her Majesty and Prince Philip's visit to the marae 20 years before was recalled with pride, and that the people had never forgotten that gracious act, and he reaffirmed the Maori people's affection, loyalty and faith in the crown, saying that the Treaty of Waitangi would undoubtedly remain an enduring link between the New Zealand people and the Queen. He said

that the new Kimiora Hall Complex could not begin its life of service in a more auspicious way, and in the years ahead ‘this day will be proudly recalled.’ He also expressed the people's delight in the presence of Princess Anne and Captain Mark Phillips, and the opportunity to pass on their good wishes personally.

Replying, Her Majesty said, ‘Mr Prime Minister, Dame Te Atairangikaahu, elders and people of the tribes of the Tainui Canoe and representatives of other tribes gathered here, tena koutou, tena koutou, tena koutou.

‘Since I last stood on this marae, many of

your elders have gone to join their ancestors. It is fitting that we should pause for a moment and think of those who have gone before us.

‘They have paved the way for us. We are all products of our past and in the rush and turmoil of modern life we should never forget that the way we think and act today will affect profoundly the lives of our children and grandchildren. Our present will be their past.

‘The strong sense of tradition and continuity of life, which is such a marked feature of the Maori people, is well illustrated in this marae. Its origin derives from the words of an ancestor of Dame Te Atairangikaahu who foresaw it as a “resting place for the feet” of his descendants and their people. But this marae is not just a memorial to the past, it is a living symbol of all that is best in Maori society. It is a gathering place where the people can share their joys and sorrows, where they can remember, and where they can plan for the future in a spirit of warmth and friendship. Above all,

it shows that the Maori people have succeeded where so many others have failed.

‘Sustained by their own social and cultural institutions, they have survived the shock of involvement with a totally different society and culture. They have emerged as a people versed in new ways but still loyal to their own traditions.

‘The building which has just been completed is firm evidence of the continuing social value of the marae. In the years to come I am sure that many thousands of people will come to this building to find that peace of mind which comes from gatherings of kinsmen in the traditional manner of a strong and vital society.

‘It gives me great pleasure to declare the Kimiora Hall open. God bless this house and all who enter here.

Kia ora koutou.’

Drifting

by Patricia Grace

They were up while it was still dark, running through the wet lupins with the tin of herrings, over the black stones to Uncle Kepa's hut. There, they put the tin under the step, pushed the door open and went in.

Still asleep. But his morning wood was ready on the hearth. Mereana opened the grate and put the wood in on top of the crumpled newspaper. She lit the fire and moved the kettle over. Lizzie was mixing porridge.

‘Hullo my babies. You got our bait?’

‘Yes Uncle. Plenty herrings.’

‘Stoke up then. Your funny uncle will get changed.’

They heard him moving around in his other room, then he went outside and filled his basin at the tankstand. Uncle. He had a wash for going fishing, but just as well she and Lizzie hadn't wasted any time washing this morning, or brushing their hair. Just as well they'd slept in their clothes to make sure about being early, because Uncle had forgotten to wake up. Get up, straighten the blankets, out over the verandah and away.

Now Lizzie was spooning porridge into three enamel plates.

‘Come on Uncle,’ Mereana called.

He came in making the room small. The skin on his face was mottled with the shock of cold water. His eyelids were rimmed with red as though his eyes had been always shut and forgotten, but had now suddenly been slit open with a sharp blade to reveal surprised and bulging brown eyes, the whites all yellowed with waiting. His lashes too seemed as though they had this minute been put there, standing stiff and straight like glued bristles.

Mostly Uncle's face was long and thin, with big folds of skin hanging down, but his cheekbones were round and jutting. His nose was hooked at the tip, with a big bubble of flesh at either side. He wore the top half of a football jersey with the bottom half of a black singlet sewn onto it; and he carried a billy of milk which he had brought in from the outside safe.

The room swung back to its normal size as he sat down, and there was a grey light coming in through the one little window high up on the wall. Uncle Kepa leaned over his dish and stuck his bottom lip way out like a shelf, then rested the spoon with the hot porridge there and sucked. The spoonful of porridge was gone.

‘Ah. Ah, good my babies.’

Mereana stopped staring at her uncle and began pouring tea while Lizzie ran to rescue the bread that was toasting by the grate.

The little bit of dirty sea in the bottom of the dinghy swung and eddied with each push. Then away, rocketing down over the stones until the bow crunched into sand at the tip of the water. One more big push and it was flying out into the lagoon with Mereana and Lizzie throwing themselves in over its sides. Uncle Kepa who had rolled his trousers up and whose legs were white stepped in over the back and sat down on the middle seat to take up the oars.

They were soon through the channel, pulling out over the belt of brown kelp where the sea changed to a dull navy blue, then further still to where the water became thick and green.

The day was alight now. Far away, back on the shore the sun was sending silver off the roofs of all the tiny houses, and streamers of smoke leaned from the morning chimneys. As they rounded the point they could see the large patches of brown rock below them in

the water, while rocks closer to land and not yet warmed and browned by the touch of sun stood black with the cold of night on them. At the feet of each was a white lacework of smashed sea.

Out on the water, so far away that it was like being nowhere, and like being no one; where even Uncle Kepa wasn't big any more, they let the rope down with the bag of stones on it and began baiting their hooks. Mereana watched her sinker break the surface and felt it take her line deep down into the sea. Who would be first? She could see a few feet of line before it disappeared, and could feel a small tingling. A quick glance at Lizzie. Lizzie was looking into the water too. Wondering perhaps who would be first. Thinking perhaps about all the fish in all the sea in all the world …

One of them will get on my line. I will pull it up quickly, and I will be first. Who would? Uncle Kepa was leaning forward with elbows on his knees. And gee. Uncle Kepa, he was asleep. What if a big fish got on Uncle's line and he didn't know. What if a shark came and bit the boat in half, who would save them. And if an albatross as big as the one in the museum came and took her and Lizzie away, who would fight it. Mereana forgot her line for the moment.

‘Lizzie, Uncle's asleep.’

But then Uncle's hand with the line in it shot up above his head. His eyes popped open and he began to pull in. Uncle was first. Mereana and Lizzie watched him bring in his tarakihi then went back to their fishing.

‘I got one. I got one Uncle. I got one Mereana.’ Lizzie's face was all red and she was zipping her line up. Now Lizzie had a fish and Mereana didn't. She could feel some little nibbles on her line but the fish kept going away and getting on Lizzie's and Uncle Kepa's. Perhaps she was on the wrong side.

‘Change seats Lizzie.’ But Lizzie wouldn't. She knew the good side. Lizzie used to be her best cousin and her best … Got one.

‘I got one Uncle. I got one Lizzie.’

Hand over hand, hand over hand. Watching in the water. Far down a shadow moving, coming closer. There was her fish. Nearly to the top. Waving in the water like a big shiny hand.

Then, as the fish broke the surface her line went slack. The shadow that had been her fish was speeding back to the deep.

‘Never mind baby. Catch another one soon.’

And there was Lizzie who used to be her best friend pulling in another one. It didn't get away from Lizzie either. As she watched her own line go down again she saw a tear drop into the sea.

Never mind. They were there again. Nibbling, pulling, snatching. And if only the boat would keep still for a while, or was it herself. Just her, going up and down up and down. The sun was above them now bouncing its heat at them from off the surface of the water. And the sea. The sea was rocking them from side to side. Up and back, up and back … Uncle had tied his line to a rowlock. He was taking some old crayfish out that he had brought for bait.

‘Waste of good crayfish,’ he was saying. ‘Waste giving it to the fish.’

He snapped the legs and began sucking the rotting flesh from them. Suck. Suck.

‘Waste of good crayfish for those fish down there. Waste of good kai, ne ra?’

Something was wrong with Mereana. Her stomach was all pinched up and she had no spit left. ‘Up and back, up and back,’ said the sea. The sun was going on and off and she could hear Uncle saying. ‘Put your head over baby. Put your head over,’ so she did. Her throat was stretching out wide. And there she was, sicking onto the sea. She watched the sick floating away like a little white nest on the water.

But what was Uncle doing? Pulling in the anchor.

‘No Uncle.’

She wiped her mouth on the bottom of her dress.

‘No Uncle. I want to catch one. A fish. A fish Uncle.’ Letting it down. Letting the anchor down.

‘A little while, a little while,’ he was saying. Well that's good. That's all right. Her line tinkled and rang, then suddenly it swam away.

‘I got one. Got one, see.’ She pulled quickly.

‘Got one Uncle. Got one Lizzie.’ She could see it now nearly at the top. Don't get away. Bigger than Lizzie's. Bigger than Uncle Kepa's. And Uncle Kepa, he was leaning over the side with a gaff hook. Don't …

Her line was empty again. She saw her fish flip and dive. Then.

Then there was a great crashing in the water and the sea had turned white. I had Uncle in it.

‘Uncle.’

Uncle Kepa's head popped out of the water.

‘I got it baby.’ And he held up the gaff with her fish flapping and gasping on it. Her fish. And it was bigger than Lizzie's. Bigger than Uncle's.

He reached over the side and put the gaff with the fish on it into the boat. He turned the boat and took hold of the anchor rope and began easing himself up. Uncle was brave you know. What if a shark came and bit his legs off, or a whale, or a giant octopus like the one that picked up a whole submarine in the pictures. The back of the boat rose as he levered himself up over the bow. He was in. He made it and his legs were still on.

The back of the boat came down with a slap and a wave whacked against its side and splashed in.

‘Bail out mates.’

Mereana and Lizzie took the bailing tins and began throwing the wave back.

‘We got it Uncle. We got my fish.’

‘We got it baby. We got that big fullu.’ He was pulling up the anchor now. Never mind.

‘These funny fishermen are all wet,’ he said.

Out from the point they watched him take his spinner from his fishing bag and let it for a hard pull homeward. Then shinning out into the water. He tied the end of the line to the seat and straightened the boat over the water, which now that they had rounded the corner was quiet and unruffled in a windless afternoon. Mereana watched the spinner sending out a fine white spray behind them. Would they catch a kahawai as Uncle said. Because fish don't eat paua shells.

‘Uncle, kahawai don't eat paua shells.’

With each big pull Uncle Kepa's breath was hissing out between his teeth, ‘The kahawai … he think … it … a herring.’ Gee Uncle. Anyone could see it was a paua shell with holes in it spinning on a line. Most of the time Uncle was clever and strong, and he could row fast, and he had jumped in the sea and saved her fish. But now … Uncle thought …

The kahawai struck. There was a green-silver flash, and spray ribboned up and out as the boat dragged the fish through the water.

‘We got one. We got one. The kahawai he thought it was a herring. Gee he thought the bit of paua shell was a herring. Dumb ay Lizzie? Dumb ay Uncle?’

‘Dumb ay Mereana.’

The lagoon was full of children, waiting to see how good the catch had been.

Mereana and Lizzie were tired that night. They had been up early and out fishing. So many things had happened that the other kids hadn't believed them. They lay side by side on Lizzie's little bed. It was a warm night. They could hear the sea scrambling up the stones.

‘Mereana.’

‘What?’

‘I wonder where your sick is.’

‘Something might've ate it.’ Because fish were dumb. They didn't know one thing from another.

‘I think it's still there on the water.’

But Mereana was tired. Her eyes closed. Away, away, in a dark place far at the back of her eyes there was a little nest drifting … Drifting. Somewhere far away on a dark, dark sea …

Bird Nesting

by Arthur Couch

A sparrow's nest! A blackbird's nest! What memories they rekindle! Although I disturbed mother blackbird and exposed her nest when cutting my hedge, I will not touch her eggs. The sparrow's nest is built high in the macrocarpa tree overhanging my gate, but still in its customary spot now beyond my ability to climb and rob. The nest has been built on that branch for many years. And yet it is not the old one, for I see new grass, and is that not the piece of binder twine I had left by my chair two days ago, intended for my tomatoes, now used so cunningly to help bind that nest?

These remind me of my very early youth when, as school children in our native village of Rapaki, we boys would rush off straight from school in search of birds' eggs. The heads of young ones, too, were collected, but only if we had decided to sell our collection of eggs within the next day or so. Mr Carpenter, the County Clerk for Mt Herbert County Council, lived in Governors Bay, and it was to him that we took the eggs. We received the princely sum of three-pence per dozen for sparrow, thrush, black-bird and finch eggs. Same for sparrows' heads.

We could never understand why starlings' eggs were not acceptable. Mind you, we did try to ‘put it across’ by adding ink spots to the thick end of the eggs. The starlings' eggs were a much lighter blue and Mr Carpenter's sharp eyes seldom allowed these to pass when checking.

How persistent these birds can be during nesting, and what a quantity of straw they carry! Even as I sit resting from my hedge cutting, one is trying to raise a tile, working from the roof guttering. Oh no, Mrs Starling, I know you too well!

Our main hunting trees were in Cass Bay, but to get to them we passed through the Abattoir paddock in which grazed cattle for the Lyttelton butchers. The long-horned steers did not look too friendly but if we could see them at the other end of the paddock, through the fence and down the hill we would go, selecting our first tree as we drew near. It was great fun to climb to the very top where there was usually a sparrow's nest to be robbed. The swaying of ‘the tree, too, was lovely. The danger of falling never entered our minds. From this position, other trees were surveyed, also lower branches. The eggs were carried in the mouth. From a good tree the tally carried in this way could be quite astonishing. My ‘grown-up’ family greet me with “Oh, Dad” when I tell them my record from one tree was twenty-two eggs. One does not have to keep one's teeth together. Just have the jaw relaxed with tongue flat on the bottom of the mouth. You trained singers will know what I mean. One's lips, of course, remained closed. Before setting off for home, we would blow the eggs out. By this I mean puncture a hole at each end and blow the yolk, etc., out.

Bluegum trees grew in the village and these afforded the sparrows safe nesting. We were able to climb some, but with their smooth trunks and branches widely spaced, the feathered inhabitants enjoyed almost complete immunity from us.

Thrush, blackbird and finches made their nests in trees and hedges which gave them hardly any protection from us marauding school boys. Even gorse thickets were no deterrent when one remembers every bird's egg collected meant a new suit slowly raising itself above the horizon, or more money to buy fireworks to usher in the New Year.

Eighty dozen eggs meant ‘One Pound’ and in those days a boy's suit could be purchased from Armstrongs in Christchurch for between two and three pounds. What havoc we must have created in the bird population

in those days. I had a new suit several successive years through this means, and we were quite happy to earn our money in this way. Recally, there was no other means in Rapaki.

I always had an advantage over other boys where protection against scratches and thorns were concerned as I was made to wear knickerbockers or long pants. Remember how knickerbockers were done up by a buckle just below the knees and the long stockings just covered the buckle? I do not remember any of us falling from a tree or badly tearing our clothing while birdnesting. The instinct to test first before trusting our weight on a branch came naturally.

My mother would allow me to spend part of the Christmas holidays with an aunt and uncle in Temuka. Money was in short supply, but my friend Kahu and I surmounted this problem by going after birds' eggs. We travelled quite a distance to get them, but determination had its reward. Four dozen eggs each meant we could go to the pictures on Saturday; another dozen, an ice cream during the interval, and still that extra dozen, another ice cream for the young lady we hoped to walk home.

And so that was birdnesting. Let us return to today. That sparrow's nest built so high up and on that swaying branch is now perfectly safe. But you, Mrs Blackbird, should not be considered, for I have watched you fighting with the net I had thrown over my raspberry bush, even released you several times from its meshes when in your determination to steal my raspberries, you have gone down to ground level to get at the fruit of your choice. Should I blame you for uprooting two short rows of French beans? Maybe it was a Magpie. I do know you tipped over a pot in which I had planted a prized chrysanthemum simply because you could hear a worm busily working around its roots.

I must forgive you for when I sit and listen to your husband perched high on a tree singing his short song and this being taken up by others of his kind all around me, I relent. His way of telling all those who cared to listed how wonderful it is to live and sing. So continue to nest and sing in the trees your Creator has provided for you. Mother Nature will do what I used to, but please, have pity on my garden.

First New Zealand Day
At Waitangi

Speaking at the conclusion of the ‘Aotearoa’ pageant, depicting in two hours the history of New Zealand from the arrival of the first canoe until the present day. Her Majesty the Queen said, ‘Mr Prime Minister, this place has many happy memories for me. I have visited it each time I have been in New Zealand and I am particularly glad to be here, with my family, on this historic occasion.

‘Waitangi will always remain an honoured name in New Zealand's history. The Treaty

signed on this spot in 1840 between Maori and Pakeha was based on compromise and tolerance and has set the keynote for this country's development.

‘Since then peoples from all parts of the

world have come here to make their homes. No one should underestimate the strains and stresses which a mixture of races and cultures can generate. The solution of such social problems cannot be left to chance. There must be a conscious effort to work together to solve them.

‘I do not believe that any country can claim to have made a greater effort than New Zealand to work out a life style acceptable to all sections of a multi-cultural community.

‘New Zealand Day, which we now celebrate for the first time, symbolizes this spirit

of mutual respect for all cultures and the continuing search for understanding between them.

‘We have all seen this spirit in action at the Commonwealth Games. Superb facilities and generous hospitality were provided by the people of Christchurch and it was obvious that they, and indeed all New Zealanders, were proud to be the hosts and glad to welcome so many visitors to their city and their country. And no one who saw the athletes and the officials circling the track at the end of the Games—all barriers forgotten in genuine friendship—could doubt the real value of such gatherings.

‘This is the true spirit of the Commonwealth. It is this friendliness between nations, this comradeship, which I am sure we all

want to see flourish within the Commonwealth family and spread to all peoples of the world.

‘Mr Prime Minister—New Zealand will have an increasingly important part to play in the Pacific and in world affairs. But her voice will only be heard if it comes from a strong and united people, conscious and proud of their Nationhood.

‘You have reminded us that it was twenty-two years ago today that I became Queen of New Zealand. It is also today, on the first New Zealand Day, that I have personally approved an Act of Parliament amending my Style and Title in this country to place New Zealand before all my other realms and territories. I have been particularly glad to do this because The Crown is a symbol of national identity and national unity. May it help you all to live together in peace and prosperity in the years to come.’

In his speech of welcome, the Prime Minister, the Rt. Hon. N. Kirk, referred to the signing. 134 years before, of the treaty which became ‘the foundation stone of our nation.’ In choosing the anniversary of this treaty as ‘New Zealand Day’, he asked, ‘Do we all realise the special meaning of this choice? Some other nations celebrate on their national day an act of violence, a revolution, a coup, a war. But we achieved our nationhood gradually, peacefully. We have no desperate revolution as the focus of our national day. We remember no martyrs who fought to overthrow a tyrant or to drive out an alien power. We were the lucky country. Independence was handed to us on a plate in the most friendly, gentlemanly, rational fashion. We came to nationhood with no heavy legacy of bitterness, with no old scores to pay off.

‘True, Maori and Pakeha came to blows. But there was valour, and honour, and restraint on both sides. We emerged from this testing period with respect for each other. We were born in peace. And so we commemorate as New Zealand Day not an act of violence but an act of trust, a pledge of co-operation. This is part of our national inheritance. We must not forget it.’

Referring to the people from many lands who came here, he said, ‘Already we are a distinctive nation, unlike any other in the world. And this is so, largely because Maori-tanga—the history, the culture, the life-style of the Maori—is woven as rich gleaming threads in the fabric of our society.’ Speaking of the future, he said, ‘Our future is what we will it—our future is no more and no less than the sum total of our daily actions. Let each New Zealand Day stand as a marker of our progress.’

In her final speech before leaving New Zealand. Her Majesty said how much she and her family had enjoyed the New Zealand Day pageant.

Just Between You an' Me

by Witi Ihimaera

This is absurd! Here I am tiptoeing around this small bed-sitter as if I'm a burglar; yet I pay the rent for this room. By rights I should be making as much noise as I wish to. I should put my shoes back on and not care if the floorboards creak when I walk over them, hang my coat in the wardrobe and not worry if the door squeaks, and boil the kettle for a cuppa without fearing the noises I'll make with clinking cup and saucer. It's raining outside and I'm dying for a cuppa to warm me up on this cold English afternoon.

But instead, here I am, George Campbell from New Zealand, scarcely daring even to breathe, and wincing at every little noise I make. My toes are getting cold and my mouth dry and I would so very much like to walk round instead of sitting rigidly here in this most uncomfortable armchair. The trouble is that if I do move, Martha might hear. She thinks I'm out but I'm not; I'm in. Just five minutes ago, she was cleaning the first floor landing and saw me locking the door.

—You goin' out then? she asked.

—Yes Martha, I answered. See you later.

She waved her dirty polishing rag at me and disappeared behind the banisters. I walked to the front door, opened it, saw what the weather was like—dirty washing water complete with rinso clouds—and changed my mind. I let the door shut and walked back to my room.

And that was when I heard Martha talking to that Henderson chap on the next floor.

—Between you an' me Mr 'enderson, she was saying, we shoulden' let all these foreigners into the country. Dir'y the lot of 'em. Dir'y! They come over ‘ere without a mind your leave and what do they do, eh? Tell me that! Just what, eh? I'll tell you Mr 'enderson, they stick at 'ome and just lay abaht, that's what! Take that boy on the groun' floor. Now 'ere's an example of what I'm saying in that dark fella. You know what 'e do? 'E lays abaht, that's what 'e do! You mark my words Mr 'enderson, 'e'll be goin' on the Social Securi'y next! Just like all them uvver West Indians! They shoulden' be let into the country. I mean it's not right, int it! We pay for 'em out of our taxes, Mr 'enderson. You mark my words: we pay for the 'ole lot of 'em …

I was stunned. My ears were burning. I hadn't meant to listen. But Martha, whom I thought was my friend, saying such things about me! And to Henderson of all people! Why, it had only been this morning that Martha had confided the latest about Mr Henderson to me.

—Just between you an' me, Mr Campbell, that Mr 'enderson is just dir'y an' 'is wife is just common. Common as dirt she is. If this was my 'ouse, I woulden let ‘er pass through the fron’ door, not on your Nelly!

Martha and that Henderson had continued to talk. I'd put the key into the door and turned it. Had they heard? No … Then I'd softly crept into the bedsitter and closed the door behind me.

Now, here I am sitting here, trying to be as quiet as a mouse. Me, in my own room, practically hiding from Martha! I suppose I'll have to admit it: George Campbell, you are a mouse! You're too timorous to let Martha know you've heard what she's said about you. Get up, man, and confront the woman! Tell her off, give her a good talking to, report her! After all, she's only a glorified charwoman, just a common cleaner. Are you going to let her get away with it? Listen to the Campbell blood calling to you. Can't you hear the bagpipes blowing? George Campbell, you're a sorry excuse for a man…

I close my eyes and mourn to myself. And when I open them, I see a small pink face with sniffing nose and tiny whiskers staring back at me from the mirror. Yes, I am a mousey person. But after all, it really is my

fault that I heard Martha and Henderson together. I should have gone out. I should have walked round in the cold and rain.

Oh, I'm dying for a cuppa!

I have been living in this London bedsitter for over a month now. At first it had seemed such a come-down from my home in christchurch, New Zealand. We Campbells are a proud family, used to lots of space and clean fresh air. In fact, my Mum didn't want me to come to London.

—It's not for the likes of my young boy, she'd said. All them brazen women running around with nothing on! You just listen to me, George Campbell. Get away from there as soon as you can and go up to Scotland. Bring a nice Highland lass home with you!

Ah, my Mum. Alas, how the Campbells have fallen! For here I am in this small room which my Mum would scream in despair for to see! One small bed in an L-shaped room, a small stove and dingy wall-paper, a toilet down the hall and bathroom up three flights … Mum would have a fit! And that is why, when I write home every week (a letter a week, George, a letter a week for your Mum), I always refer to the bedsitter as my ‘flat’. My Mum worries so much about me—are you taking your hay fever tablets, wrap yourself up well, watch out for the smog, don't talk to strangers, watch your pennies—that I haven't the heart to feed her anxieties by telling her I live in one room. If I did, I know I'd get an urgent missive from her asking me how can I possibly breathe, and get up to Scotland or come home right this minute! My Mum loves me, but I wish she would let me be. I'm a big boy now. I've even got a girlfriend to prove it.

But one thing anyway, is that my ‘flat’ doesn't cost me much in rent. Another is that apart from myself, there are no mice. When I'd first arrived in London, it had put the fear of God into me to read the small white placards displayed in flat-letting agencies, to wit:

Highgate: b/s kitch. fac., lin. supp., 2 min. from Tube, sleep one, visitors no ob., 5 pds p.w., NO MICE.

I had therefore approached any prospective accommodation with trepidation. Even now that I have a ‘flat’ and even though I know there are no mice here, I sometimes think I can see the little beasties cavorting in the moonlight in the middle of the floor. At home, my Mum and our cat pounced on any mouse quick and smart. Here, I tremble and quake in bed and yet my mice are only imaginary …

But all this is getting away from Martha. From the first meeting it was love at first sight. Marth seemed so like my Mum.

Martha is the cleaning woman who is employed by Mr Halcombe, the landlord, to keep this four-storey house in running order. She arrives every day right on the dot of eleven to hoover the hall carpet, polish the banisters, scrub the front doorstep, clean out the two bathrooms and ensure that there is always a supply of pink toiletpaper in the four ‘conveniences’. She does all this with an air of quiet efficiency and sad martyrdom and every day I hear her whispering to herself:—I'ave to live, 'aven' I?

Her efficiency isn't all that efficient. Every-thing she does is in fits and starts. She polishes one side of the brass but not the other. She hoovers the hall carpet in squares, one square hoovered, the other dusty.

In this respect and also in her garrulous conversation, she is a far cry from my Mum. But as soon as I saw that broad beam of hers moving back and forth across the outside steps as she scrubbed, I knew that she would be my guardian angel. I was prepared to accept her faults.

Martha also supplies clean sheets, linen, tea and bath towels every Friday afternoon. As well, she is supposed to make the beds and clean out the rooms of the tenants, but she has never needed to do this for me. I was brought up the proper way.

—If you sleep in a bed, Mum used to say, you make it yourself. If you have a room, you keep it tidy, George. Cleanliness is next to godliness, George. It is referred to in the Bible—the King James' version.

However, it seems that there is one tenant in particular, a certain Mr Henderson, who insists that Martha clean his room and make his bed. And she is always complaining

about it.

—I've enough to do, 'aven' I? she says. 'oovering out the 'all, polishin' all them brass fings. 'Oo does 'e fink he is, a bloomin' King or somefink? 'E's just dir'y, that's what 'e is, just dir'y! And you know what 'e does while I'm slavin' around in 'is room? 'E just sits there in 'is armchair an' I 'av to move his bloomin' feet to 'oover under 'im. What's 'e got a wife for, I'd like to know. Bofe of 'em are just dir'y an' worse than that, they're mean! Bofe of 'em.

This is what my Martha has said to me. But now, she seems to have gone over to the other side! What have I done wrong?

Martha is a Cockney or some variation of that remarkable species. She swallows her “h's” with remarkable relish and substitutes a hiccup on almost every “th” sound. But this makes her all the more endearing to me. The Cockney, like the Scot and Welshman, given the dialect changes, knows that only he speaks the true tongue of this island. All in together we are!

Anyway, Martha and I got on well from the very start. We hadn't spoken when I had first met her scrubbing the steps, but it didn't take her long to introduce herself to me. One morning she rapped on the door and I opened it to see her standing there—my Martha!

—I'm Martha, she said, squinting through her glasses. ‘Oo are you?

Stammering, I introduced myself. I told her I was from New Zealand and had been a teacher there.

—Teaching's a good lark, int it? she said.

That made me bluster a bit more and I had to explain that I wasn't in London to teach. I was here to study music at the Guildhall. Straight away, Martha thought I was famous.

—What did you say your name was? she asked.

—Campbell, I answered.

She digested this for a second and then pursed her lips.

—Never 'eard of you, she said.

Oh, we had a fine conversation! Martha was very interested in me, I could tell.

—'Ow come you're so dark? she asked.

—I have Maori blood in me, I answered.

—Is that some sor' of disease or somefink? she asked.

So I had to explain that Maori people were Polynesian

—Just like them West Indians, Martha nobbed.

That shocked me a bit, so I asked her:

—But do I really look like a West Indian, Martha?

—Cor, no! she answered hurriedly. I mean you 'aven' got the curly 'air 'ave you! An' you 'aven' the same kin' of colour 'ave you! An' your name, Campbell, well I mean that's Welsh int it! No. I'd fink you was a Spaniard or one of 'em!

I was glad that my Mum wasn't around to hear.

However, Martha was more interested in my musical ambitions. She asked me if she could look at my guitar and I told her I wasn't in London to learn to play an instrument but to compose music. She was very doubtful about this, but soon accepted it once I began to bring home manuscripts with musical notations. In no time at all, she began disturbing me on one pretext after another. In the end it became a regular thing for her to drop in for a cuppa before going home. I loved to listen to her and she confided a lot of information to me. I must have been the audience of her dreams.

—Cor, Mr Campbell, there's been some proper goings on 'ere, I can tell you! she would say.

Then she would look round to make sure nobody else was in the room, beckon me nearer with a finger and tell me all about it.

—Three people 'ave died in this 'ouse, Mr Campbell! Three! One of 'em, poor ol' soul she was too, I was just talkin' to 'er like I'm talkin' to you now an' she just went like THAT! An' then there was the boy in the next room before you come, 'e was on drugs. Cor! The fings we found after we kicked him out! 'yperdemic needles, cotton wool, rubber tubes … 'E was an addic' you know. Then there was the woman upstairs. I took one look of 'er when she come 'ere an' I sez to meself: Martha, that one's a trollop an' make no bones about it. An' she was, too, Mr Campbell! We soon got rid of 'er, I can tell you! You'd never believe there was such

people in the world, would you! Yes, Martha's seen 'em all, Martha's seen 'em all …

I looked forward to Martha's visits and she never disappointed me. I think she liked having somebody to talk to. Very early in our conversations she told me she was a widow—just like my Mum. Her countenance had become sad as she'd narrated her woes. She was living on her pension but that wasn't enough to survive on. Hence the reason she was a cleaning woman. She described the events of her wedding day as if it had just been a half an hour ago. She had no children, although over a subsequent cup of tea she did mention a grandson—which was most puzzling. When she described how her husband died, she wept a bit, so I gave her a few bob. I vowed I would look after her a little. I hoped she looked on me as a son. For my part, I looked upon her as being a good substitute for my Mum.

It was difficult to imagine Martha looking any different from what she was and is, at fifty-five. She is small and plump like my Mum, but her hair is kept artificially blonde. Her face is extremely mobile when she talks and her eyes almost disappear when she giggles. At any time, her eyes are difficult to see because her glasses are so thick. I suspect their colour is green—two little green peas, so infinitesimally small in that large round face. Actually, now that I think of if and considering the conversation I have heard, Martha is really nothing like my Mum at all. I have been doing Mum a great disservice. Forgive me, Mumsy …

But Martha has been good to me, I must admit. She and I are always complimenting each other. I would tell her that her hair was looking nice and she would look at mine and hesitantly say it was looking nice too.

However, the best thing of all, was that Martha took an interest in me. She was interested in everything I did and all the sightseeing I would do over the weekends. She was most impressed that I had actually been to the ‘Trooping the Colour’.

—You really seen it? she asked, amazed. I've never seen it, she added wistfully. I seen the Queen though. An' did you 'ave to wear a morning suit? Them grey trousers and tails and top 'at and fings? An' did the Queen look nice? Cor, I wish I'd seen it! But I 'ave to live 'aven' I!

On one occasion, I showed her my photograph album. I have taken lots of photographs of London to show my Mum when I get back to New Zealand. Martha and I played a guessing game.

—Where's that, Martha? I asked.

—That's Buckin'am Palace.

—Where's this?

—'yde Park!

—And this?

—The Chelsea 'ouseboats!

Martha loved that game. Sitting with her that afternoon, it seemed as if I was back home again. Afterward, she was full of information about places I should also see in London.

—'ave you been to 'ampton Court yet? No? Cor, you must go there! An 'ow about Kew Gardens? It'll be beatiful at this time of year with all them flowers bloomin'. Me 'ubby used to take me there you know, when we was just first married. An' did you know that lots of people, famous people, live around 'ere? Cor, there's lots of 'em! An' 'ave you seen the Crown jools? I wish they'd throw some over 'ere!

Martha was a compendium of knowledge about London. She knew all there was to know about Billingsgate, Petticoat Lane and Bermondsey.

Most times, Martha was a cheery soul. Sometimes though, she could become extremely bitter and critical. Some of her shafts she aimed at Mr Henderson; most of the others she aimed at the Common Market and the invasion by what she termed 'the coloureds'.

About the Common Market, she used to say:

—'oo wants to 'ave them Frenchies over 'ere! All they fink about is sex!

About the coloureds, she had just one opinion:

—They're just dir'y, Mr Campbell. The whole lot of 'em are just dir'y. They come over 'ere, thousands of 'em an' what do they do? Nofink, that's what! Then they expect the British Governmen' to look after 'em, the blighters. I seen 'em, whole queues of 'em

down at the Social Security drawin' on the National Assistance. I seen 'em! They don't come 'ere to work; they come 'ere to sponge, they do! I mean, they got to live same as I do, but why can't they get themselves jobs? Look at me, I'm workin' aren' I? An' you know what's the worst fing? That it's people like me, payin' taxes an' all, which gives them blighters their money? You woulden' call that fair would you? They should all be sent back where they come from that's all I can say.

I comforted Martha after her first outburst against the coloureds. I was most alarmed at what she said, but I couldn't believe her.

Martha was also extremely critical of the Australians. She seemed to like New Zealanders though, mainly because she liked New Zealand lamb.

Martha and I grew very close in that one month. We had good times together. I learnt a lot from her, particularly about that Henderson chap. I have only seen him a few times, but I disliked him because Martha disliked him. That has been most unreasonable of me. Still, he certainly seems very pompous.

But now what am I going to do!

I have heard Martha and her arch enemy talking about me! I feel shattered, I feel wounded. I'm going to write home to my Mum. She's the only girl for me. But …

Gosh! I'm dying for a cuppa. I can't stay silent any longer. I know what! I'll slip my shoes back on and go to the door. I'll turn the key in the lock and quietly look out to see if Martha is around. If the hallway is deserted, I'll creep to the front door, open it, and then shut it with a bang. Then I'll yell:

—Martha! I'm home!

And maybe she'll join me in a cup of char. I hope so. I like Martha.

Ma - wai - hakona
In Australia

‘Our apologies, ladies and gentlemen. There will be a few minutes delay, while some of our freight is off-loaded.’ There was a great burst of laughter at this, as many of the Ma-wai-hakona members thought this might be their fault—most of us certainly came back with more than we took over. In fact, there were several extra suitcases bought in Sydney, for the presents for those at home who had looked after families during the absence of parents and for Christmas gifts and souvenirs.

The whole Australian trip was a wonderful experience, right from the moment we landed in Sydney, where the policemen at the airport were armed with revolvers … and we had our first ride on a double-decker bus—to Endeavour Hostel, South Coogee, where we stayed for two weeks. What a magnificent place it was. All the South Pacific Festival people—from the Cook Islands, Fiji, the Solomon Islands, Papua New Guinea, Samoa, some Aborigines and Banaban Islanders—staying there, along

with immigrants from 41 countries. There are 18 two-storey blocks each containing several two-room flats, a dining room seating 864, shop, Post Office, recreation facilities, child-minding centre, laundries, language classroom, and the most friendly, helpful international staff. This was one of the highlights of the trip—getting to know the people of other countries.

On our arrival at Endeavour we received a full Maori welcome organised by Wi Pere Raukura of Rotorua and the Sydney Maori Club, and were treated to a delicious hangi down on the tennis court after settling in to our quarters. Rehearsals began on the grass next morning, and late that afternoon we left for our first rehearsal at the Opera House. It had looked magnificent from the air as we flew in, but at close quarters it was even more so—actually seven separate ‘halls’ under the sail-like roofs—and we rehearsed in the ‘recording hall’ where the stage dimensions of the main hall were marked on the floor.

All the groups were to perform at the ‘South Pacific Festival’ three days after the opening, but Ma-wai-hakona and the Cook Islands Group had the additional honour of

performing on the Queen's dais when she arrange our lines for the small dais, we left for a tour of inspection after declaring slipped outside for a look at the actual the great building open. As we had to re-size—only to find squads of armed police-

men materialising out of the darkness!

At these first rehearsals we were fascinated as each group went through its routine, and as the props appeared at the final rehearsal we learnt a great deal—the Aborigines' white ‘blobs’ were chopped up cockatoo breast-

feathers formed into the right shape with honey or sugar and water! Nine hours of planned rehearsal on the day after the opening were cancelled, as the producers found the ‘joy and discipline’ within each group to be of an extremely high standard,

and additional directions to the routines were hardly needed.

Following the South Pacific Festival, the performers were divided into four groups each representing two countries, and we gave short concerts in various Sydney parks at lunch-time, followed by long hot bus trips to outlying ‘suburbs’ for an evening meal and a concert. Our companions were the Solomon Islanders, with two exceptions all third-year training college students, and sometimes we also had the Samoan knife-dancer and his drummer with us. At first we occupied separate decks on the bus, but after four days we were well mixed up, learning each other's songs and having fun together.

Time for shopping, a visit to Taronga Park Zoo, a repeat of the Festival programme in the open at Hyde Park, another repeat in Sydney Town Hall for aged and disabled, and the Sydney visit drew to a close. The last few days were spent in Canberra, with the Solomon Islanders, Aborigines and Papua New Guineans. There we gave two evening performances, finishing with all groups on stage singing ‘Po Atarau’.

There were truly Polynesian scenes of farewell as the group separated to return home—tears, songs, and the exchange of costumes and addresses. There were tears and songs too as we finally left Endeavour Hostel where we had made so many friends and had been treated so royally. It was not a holiday—the groups ‘earned their keep’ with the constant performances—but it was all worth it.

Ma-wai-hakona thanks friends, supporters, employers, baby-sitters, those who helped with donations and time in all the months

of preparation, and the New Zealand and assistants, many of whom took leave from Australian Governments, Endeavour Hostel their employment to act as guides and stage staff, Beth Deane and Victor Carell, and their staff.

During the brief visit to Canberra, Ma-wai-hakona members were entertained to a meal by our High Commissioner Mr Chapman and Mrs Chapman.

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