Wiki herself had her husband Henare and five kids, which had put an end to any ideas they’d had about sharing accommodation when they’d all come to Auckland to seek their fortunes. They’d heard that Auckland was full of big old houses for rent, but when they’d got here they’d discovered they weren’t for rent to the likes of them. The advertisements in the papers often said straight out, No Dogs, No Maoris, and if they didn’t say that, when they turned up at a house they were told time and again the place had just been let. So they’d had to settle for two houses in the same street, and they were dumps, nowhere near as nice as the whares they’d lived in back home.
Kura’s rented house had three bedrooms and a front room, a kitchen tacked onto the back, but no bathroom. There was an outhouse with no light that stank so badly you couldn’t take a breath in it, and a laundry in a shed out the back with no water supply. There was no running hot water in the house though there was electricity; there were holes in the floor, which was on a lean; the walls were bare scrim in places and had the paper hanging off in others; and some of the windows had been boarded over. The four boys shared one bedroom, the girls shared another and she and Joshua the third, which barely had space for their bed. The house was infested with cockroaches no matter how carefully Kura cleaned the kitchen, and rats lived under the floorboards. But at least the rent was cheap. Wiki’s house wasn’t any better, and only had two bedrooms so her kids — three girls and two boys — were jammed into one so she and Henare could have the other.
But they were making money, more than they had back home. In Hawke’s Bay there was good money to be made during the shearing season, but that didn’t last long and apart from that there was only labouring for the men, which didn’t pay well, and not much at all for the women. So if you wanted to get on you had to leave. Plenty of young people and families were moving to the cities these days, where the jobs were. The world was changing too, and the old ways didn’t seem to work so well any more, and that’s another reason they’d come — to give their kids a better chance at fitting in with the Pakeha way of life.
Wiki and Henare had given their kids Pakeha first names and Maori middle names, so they’d sound like they were Pakeha — which Kura thought was silly because all the Irwin kids were a beautiful shade of Cadbury’s Dairy Milk. But Joshua had put his size twelve foot down and insisted on giving their own kids Maori names first followed by Pakeha names, though, Huriana, his mother, had stubbornly insisted on calling them all by their Pakeha names — ‘To help them get on,’ she reckoned — and they’d stuck. But they were still brown and had Apanui for a surname, so what was the point of that?
They were what they were, Kura thought, and that was good enough, but that didn’t mean they couldn’t live like Pakeha if they wanted to. And there were plenty of Pakeha in Ponsonby, and even some Islanders. There were labouring and service jobs and work in the factories but, like her family and Wiki’s, folk in her area seemed to be stuck at the bottom of the pile. Things just cost more in the city. On the other hand there were more opportunities, especially for the kids. Joshua worked, Henare worked, her three eldest — Johnny, seventeen, Patricia, sixteen, and Mary, fifteen — were working, and Wiki’s eldest, Rena, fifteen, was working. So in her house there were five wages coming in, but nine mouths to feed and nine bodies to clothe. Wiki, Kura thought, was probably worse off because Henare, as a labourer, didn’t earn as much as Joshua did on the railways, so she gave her food and a bit of money whenever she could. But then Wiki would turn around and give it back some other way, which defeated the purpose, but you couldn’t stop her without offending her and sending her into a shitty liver. Kura knew her own budget didn’t have any leeway but the Irwins were family, and that’s what you did for family.
Joshua’s mother, Huriana, and Wiki’s father, Haimona, were brother and sister. Their parents had been Kepa Te Roroa and his wife, Parehuia. That made Kura and Wiki cousins, Kura by marriage, and their children second cousins, which was close enough to consider themselves first cousins. So now there was a little outpost of the Maungakakari hapu taking over Ponsonby, a thought that always made Kura smile. And they’d heard recently through the grapevine that another branch of the family had lately moved to Auckland — Ana Leonard and her husband and kids.
Ana’s father was Joseph Deane, Kepa Te Roroa’s illegitimate son to Tamar Deane, so that made Ana a first half-cousin. But no one cared about the halfness and to everyone she was a full cousin. Ana had married David, a sheep farmer, and it had been his family’s sheep the Apanuis and Irwins had shorn every season for years, among others. But apparently the Leonards didn’t have the farm any more — no one seemed to know why not — and were living in Auckland now. Kura had been meaning to find out where exactly Ana was and pay her a visit, but hadn’t got around to it yet. But she would — it was important to keep up with family.
Kura entered the front door of her house, which opened no more than two feet from the footpath. All the houses round here were like that — no grass out the front, no garden, nowhere for the kids to play except on the street. There was a broken old path leading round to the back of the house but it was covered in dirt and slime and they were all sick of falling over on it, so now they went through the house instead of round it. She toed off her shoes and added them to the tidy, but very long, row of footwear already in the hall. That was the rule — no shoes on in the house, but they couldn’t leave them outside in the porch in case someone pinched them.
The only member of her family not home was Sam, her nine-year-old. According to Joshua he was out somewhere playing with Eddie, Wiki’s nine-year-old and her youngest. They were as thick as thieves, those two. Sam was a bright, happy boy, and slow to anger, but when he did, boy, did he do a haka. Kura wasn’t too worried, though — there was time for him to grow out of it.
‘Go and find them, will you?’ she said to Johnny. ‘We’re going over to Auntie’s for tea.’
‘I’m going out.’
‘No you’re not. You’re getting Sam and Eddie then you’re coming to Auntie’s with us. Plenty of time to go out after.’
‘Ah Jeez, Mum!’
‘Ah Jeez yourself. And don’t take the Lord’s name in vain. Go on, off you go.’
Johnny slouched out, probably thinking he looked like that Marlon Brando from the pictures with his hair slicked back, his collar turned up and his peaked cap on.
Kura took off her work uniform, put it on a hanger and sat on her bed in her petticoat, massaging her aching feet. She did worry about Johnny. He was a good boy and always had been, and his boss at the Destructor said he was a good, hard worker, but Johnny hated the job. Kura didn’t blame him. The Destructor was the incinerator that burnt the rubbish for all of Auckland city, casting a massive pall of smoke over Ponsonby, Freeman’s and St Mary’s bays, and Johnny complained it made him stink, which it did, but he got paid reasonably well for burning everyone else’s crap and Kura thought he should stick with it. But Johnny had ambitions and wanted to move on — he just hadn’t decided what to, yet. And Kura feared he was running around with the wrong crowd. He desperately wanted a motorbike, though there was no chance of him ever affording one, and now he’d bought one of those portable record players and was listening to that new wild music, that greasy American boy mumbling his song ‘That’s All Right, Mama’ or some such. Worse, Wiki reckoned you couldn’t buy those records from the USA in New Zealand and Johnny was probably getting them off sailors down at the docks, so what was he doing hanging around down there? What was so wrong with Ruru Karaitiana singing ‘Blue Smoke’ anyway? Or Bill Sevesi, or Billy Wolfgramm and His Islanders — they were good. And when Johnny had told her the record player hadn’t cost much she hadn’t believed him, and had spent nearly an hour looking through his things (when he was out) and had discovered a hire-purchase docket. Forty-three pounds and ten shillings! How many times had they told their kids never to buy anything on tick, that HP was a fool’s game and that if they wanted something they
had to save up and buy it? God, she’d been ropeable. And on top of that they’d had to listen to Elvis bloody Presley day in and day out ever since
And as well there were the outlandish clothes, the silly cap and turned up collars and the denim trousers. The other week he’d come home from town with a pair of boots so clompy she wondered how he could walk in them. She’d told him he looked like a train driver from the 1920s, but he only ever smiled, kissed her cheek and told her he loved her too!
But it wasn’t all hopeless. He went to the Maori Community Centre two or three times a week, to the dances and some of the Maori cultural events, and that made her feel better. They were run by decent people, folk from other marae who knew what was what. They’d keep his feet on the ground.
Sam flitted past the bedroom door.
‘Come here, boy!’ Kura called.
He slunk back.
‘Where have you been?’
‘Nowhere.’
‘Look at your feet! Go and give them a wash. With soap!’
Finally everyone was organised and they arrived at Wiki’s. She had a huge pot bubbling away on the stove.
‘Boil-up?’ Kura asked as she placed four large rewana loaves wrapped in tea towels on the little kitchen table, which was far too small for a family of seven.
‘Cabbage, though,’ Wiki apologised.
It was a common problem — there wasn’t a lot of puha or pikopiko to be found in the middle of Auckland. Not these days.
Kura shrugged. Cabbage was still a green vegetable. Close enough.
‘And there’s some steamed pudding and cake for after.’
‘Sure you can spare it?’
‘’Course,’ Wiki replied, then turned and vomited into the sink.
Kura said, ‘Shit!’ and rushed to her side.
Wiki threw up again, spat and leant on her arms, head down. Kura ran the tap into the sink to clear it, squirted in some dishwashing liquid, gave it a good wipe down, then handed Wiki a cup of water. Then she stood gently patting her back, waiting.
Wiki’s daughters Rena and Vicki came into the kitchen and Kura shooed them out.
Finally Wiki said, ‘I think I’m hapu again.’
Kura didn’t congratulate her because she knew Wiki didn’t particularly want any more kids. ‘Oh, well.’
‘I thought I was past it.’
‘You’re only forty.’
‘But nothing’s happened for years.’
‘Haven’t you been using anything?’
Wiki gestured towards the doorway with her head. ‘He wouldn’t and, well, I couldn’t be bothered sometimes. You know how it is.’
Kura said, ‘Mmm,’ though she didn’t. She’d never worried about it and after Alice she didn’t have to.
‘There’ll be such a big gap,’ Wiki said.
For a moment Kura was confused. ‘Where?’
‘Between this one and Eddie. Nearly ten years. And I won’t be able to work. I’ll be showing soon.’
‘How far along are you?’
‘Over three months.’
She was right, Kura thought, she would be showing soon. Unlike herself Wiki was a small woman — only five feet two and the size of two Topsy sticks tied together with cotton. ‘Why didn’t you say something?’
‘I don’t know.’
‘Have you told Henare?’
‘Not yet. I don’t know if I want this one, Kura. We can’t afford it.’
Kura gave her a squeeze. ‘You can, you wait and see. Anyway, us Maungakakari women never get rid of our babies. We keep them and we do our best for them.’
‘I know. It’s just that . . .’ Wiki got her hanky out of her sleeve, dabbed at her eyes then blew her nose. ‘I know.’
‘All right, then?’
Wiki nodded. ‘It’ll be all right.’
*
When Allie and Sonny got home that night, Allie opened the back door with considerable trepidation, sniffing theatrically. Sonny laughed.
‘You go in first, then.’
‘Don’t be a twit,’ Sonny said and gave her a gentle shove.
She stepped into the kitchen. No smell of cat shit, but she did see Mr De Valera sitting in the middle of their little two-person dining table, staring back at her.
‘Look at him!’ she exclaimed. ‘He’s got his bum all over the tablecloth!’
‘Well, get him off it.’
Allie grabbed the cat round his plump middle, which made him immediately roll over. Out came his claws, so that when Allie picked him up the tablecloth came with him. What a little bastard. Over went the salt and pepper shakers, the sugar bowl and the sauce bottle.
‘It’s not funny. Come and unhook him.’
Grinning hugely, Sonny disconnected Dev and smoothed the cloth back over the table.
Dumping the cat on the floor, Allie said, ‘Don’t bother, that’ll have to be washed now. I’m not eating off where his bum’s been.’
Sonny picked up Dev, who gave him a smoochy cuddle and rubbed his furry face against Sonny’s neck. ‘I think he can tell you don’t like him.’
‘Good.’
‘But if you tried it might make things a bit easier. He might be here for a while.’
‘No he won’t. Nan’ll be home soon. Mum said so.’
‘Did she?’
Allie filled the kettle with water and put it on the stove. ‘Well, you heard what she said. Nan’ll be back on her feet in no time.’
‘I know that’s what she said. But, Allie . . .’
He had his serious face on now, and she didn’t want to hear what he was going to say. She moved the upended condiments from the kitchen table and carried the sugar-scattered tablecloth to the back door.
‘Allie, sit down for a minute.’
‘I’ll just shake this out.’
‘No, sit down.’
She sighed, and did, the tablecloth in a ball in her lap.
He said, ‘I know your mother said your nan will be better soon, but old people often don’t get better after a bad fall. Sometimes they stay bedridden, and sometimes it’s just too much for them and, well, they die.’
The ember of dread and fear that smouldered constantly in Allie’s belly flared into painful brightness. ‘How do you know?’
‘Because I’ve seen it, with our kaumatua.’
‘But why would Mum say she’s going to be all right if she isn’t?’
‘Well, no one really knows right now, do they? And because I’m sure she doesn’t want it to happen.’
Allie said, ‘But just because some old people die after a fall doesn’t mean Nan will.’
‘No, I know.’ Sonny took her hand. ‘I’m just saying this . . . just in case. And because, well, you know, I love you.’
Allie burst into tears.
Chapter Five
November 1955
Ana Leonard stared out the kitchen window at her back lawn as she washed the breakfast dishes. The kids had left for school, Jack was in his room pottering about, and David had gone for another week, though they’d all had a nice weekend together.
She hated living in Auckland. She missed the farm, she missed her parents and other family, she missed the horses, the dogs, the sheep, the hills, the weather, the glorious solitude — she missed everything. She particularly missed hopping on her horse whenever she felt like it and riding miles out over the hills by herself, the wind in her hair, just thinking her thoughts. She couldn’t do anything by herself in town and the only time she got the wind in her hair was when she walked down the hill to the butcher’s, which wasn’t the same at all.
She really should make an effort to get in touch with some of her relatives. Her cousins on her grandfather’s side, Wiki Irwin and Kura Apanui and their families, whom she knew well, lived in Auckland now. It would be wonderful to see them — if only she could leave Jack. She’d also heard from her mother that her cousin Kathleen on her grandmother’s side had lately moved back to New Zealand from England with her family and was also living som
ewhere in Auckland, though she wasn’t in such a rush to visit her. Kathleen seemed to think she was a cut above everyone else, and had never been too keen on mixing with the ‘native’ side of the family, which suited everyone, actually. Oh, she’d probably call on Kathleen one day, for the sake of propriety, but she’d much rather spend time with Kura and Wiki, and so would her kids.
They hadn’t liked it here to start with, either, and had missed their horses and dogs dreadfully, but she suspected they were beginning to enjoy making new friends at school and in the neighbourhood, which was nice for them. Peter had joined the local branch of Cubs and was loving that, marching about in his uniform and going on campfire outings and what have you, and David had built a hutch on the back lawn so Rowie could keep rabbits, which she tended adoringly and frequently bandaged in order to practise her nursing skills. Ana had never seen such tolerant, and indeed stoical, rabbits in her life. Jo, though, had discovered the school library and spent hours reading when not outside tearing about. Perhaps she was destined to become the family intellectual, and not a rouser in a shearing gang after all. David wasn’t too keen on his new job and was still quietly bitter about losing the farm — though he seemed to have forgiven his father — but the wool inspector’s position paid well, and at least he got to spend time out on different farms. As for Jack, he didn’t know where he was half the time now. She couldn’t even leave him alone to pop down to the shops and had to drag him along with her, which was often more trouble than it was worth, so now she usually did her shopping after the kids got home from school and they could watch him, which she realised wasn’t ideal.
She wondered how long they could keep going like this. She wondered, in fact, how long she could keep going. She felt trapped, with nothing to look forward to and nothing to look at, except a couple of tatty feijoa trees and a gone-to-seed veggie garden no one had had time to dig over and replant.
From the Ashes Page 6