Much love,
Yours ake, ake, ake,
Star.
(I’m a Star
I’m a Star
I’m a Monstar.)
Geography,
Room 3,
Period 3,
Friday.
Dear Sef,
I write to you amid a shower of topographical maps, aerial photos, fault lines and air masses. What a circus. Lattimer arrives loaded with books which he bangs on to a table. Then he starts spouting – So you SEE, So you SEE – producing his cross-sections, graphs, map keys, land formations like tricks out of a hat. After a while he bounces round the room dealing out worksheets and slamming books down in front of us, creating his own earthquakes.
Writing to Ani I remembered how we always used to go downtown on late shopping nights. She and I used to make all sorts of excuses so we’d be allowed to go, and so did you. You used to tell your mother you were going on a training run, then you’d run into town and we’d all meet and spend our money on take-aways and junk. Then we’d hang round the fountain with the other kids and hope a fight might start up between our college and the one up the line. We always knew who was out to get who, and who was ripping off what from where. The night we caught the taxi home (with Lenny’s money) you had to run up and down the road to get puffed and sweaty before you went inside. I got home wet from you throwing half the fountain on me. We’d all swapped clothes as usual.
Well parents get upset about funny things. Wasn’t allowed downtown for ages and ages and used to feel really slacked off on late-shopping-nite-nites because I wanted to be out there having FUN, that was winter. Hey what babies we were, running round, hiding in doorways and hoping all the time that something really awful would happen.
Yes Lattimer’s got a great act there. Maybe we should all crouch on our desks like circus tigers and spring from table to table and roar, and swipe the air with our paws.
What about the time we took your little cousins to the zoo, and Andy got smart to the ape and it went haywire. Then Andy walked away whistling and looking at the sky. Remember the ducks zooming in, and the tiger that turned its bum round at feed time and pissed on the people. And Ani pissed herself laughing. Oh Ani, what a roly-poly, what a ball. Ani’s really neat.
Well the ape was bouncing all over its cage with its big open mouth as pink as undercoat paint, baring his old smoker’s teeth and trying to wrench the bars apart. Then he began snatching and grabbing at his own arm, his own shoulder, his own head, and at the same time he kept opening his mouth and slamming it shut, and putting his bottom teeth almost up his nose. His eyes were as black as print and glinting like flicked pins.
Our mate Lenny looked at the ape and said, ‘Honey baby come to my pipi farm and I’ll give you a gink at my muscles.’ Spare It! Poor monkey, with its thumbs on back to front. The palms of its hands looked like cow turds.
I really wonder about Lattimer. The way he throws himself about the room you’d think he was really trying to knock the walls down and make a run for it, or perhaps he wants to give himself a crack on the head so he can be pulled out by the feet.
Anyway he’s all right – busts out in a sick grin every so often. Remember Harris (harass) and her screwed-up face, and how she used to walk in and shove open all the windows because we all stank. I really wanted to walk out that time Andy left, if only I’d had the guts. Everytime she got on to him I felt like dying, even before I knew Andy properly. She’d never believe what Andy’s really like, she was just so scared of him, of his looks, of the way he talks, of his poor clothes. Most of all she must have realised Andy had her taped, over and over, although he never said anything. On that last day I reckon it was his quietness and his acceptance that got to her. She was screwed up with hate, and screaming. Writing to Andy next period and won’t forget to tell him about Palmer’s DISGUISE.
Sometimes I can’t hack the thought that I didn’t follow Andy down the road that day, instead of sitting here waiting to ‘realise’ my ‘potential’. Hey Sef, when and how does potential become whatever it’s meant to become? I mean Mum and Dad have all these IDEAS, they’re both getting their THRILLS over my education and I reckon I’ll be sitting behind a desk FOREVER.
Funny though, if it had been either one of them they’d have gone out the door with Andy without thinking twice, because they really know what’s important. It’s only me they’ve got under glass. Anyhows I’ll leave it before I start thinking what a sucker I am.
And now I’ll talk about the beach. Nex’ time we’ll take all our gears, especially FOOD. If you’re wrkng next wknd, or if Ani’s wrkng, or if Andy can’t come, we’ll go another time. Soon. But gee Sef, the dropping sun and the bleeding sky and those great fat humping seas, the seagulls . . .
I often dream about flying, and sometimes in the dream I’m afraid of what I’m doing, and other times I’m so happy and free flying about, up above everyone and everything, going anywhere I want . . . If I wasn’t me I’d be a seagull belting out over the sea and throwing myself at any storm, ANY STORM. What would you be, e hoa, if you weren’t you?
Gotta go Iosefa, he’s snapping up all his books and handouts, and now, slurp, they’ll all back in the trick box. Howzat? See ya lunchtime, which is now.
Much love from
Star of the Sea.
History,
Room 42,
Period 4,
Friday.
Dear Andy,
Great to see you on Sunday, you and your old guitar. I hardly remember going to the beach, only being there. When we came to meet you off the train we didn’t quite expect to find ourselves on the next one heading north. Suddenly we were off the train again and legging it to the beach all those miles. But it seemed no distance, the road just rolled away under us and only our talking tongues were in a sweat. Hey, that neat car, ‘You got the Mercedes, I got the Benz’ (according to Len). I’ve been writing letters all morning as part of my anti-boredom campaign.
What I want to tell you is that Iosefa has got a black eye. On Tuesday, Palmer, who is the new VICE principal, disguised himself (as a flasher) and pounced on Lenny, Iosefa and some other boys who were all puffing up large on the bank by the top field. True. He put on his old raincoat, ankle length no less (a real flasher’s job), and one of those work caps that have advertisements printed on them – Marple Paints. The boys thought it was a member of the public taking a short-cut to the road so didn’t take much notice. Instead it was old P. ready to pounce, wearing his usual greaser’s grin.
All the letters went home to parents as usual –
‘Dear , I wish to bring to your notice that your son/daughter was discovered (!!!) smoking in the school grounds on (date, etc…etc.).
Iosefa got thumped by his old man, and Lenny’s mum screwed up the letter and laughed her wrinkled old head off. On Wednesday, Palmer’s blackboard was covered with compliments – ‘Palmer’s a wanker’ and all the usual things. Someone drew a spy glass with a gory eye looking through. And you know Rick Ossler? His old man came up and shook ‘the letter’ in Palmer’s face and called him a Creeping Jesus. Well I laughed and laughed. Never heard that expression before, but when I told Mum she said it was an oldie.
Anyway enough of that. Neat fun sitting up on that ledge singing up large, we must’ve been there for hours. Every now and then I’d think of all our mates from fourth form days, and how we’d all go over to D6 and sing and act like fools, and make up funny songs.
But Angie and Brian, Willy, Judy, Vasa, Hariata, lots of others . . . I was thinking too of how we all used to terrorise the town on late-shopping-nite-nites. Wonder what they’re all doing now?
Before I went to bed on Saturday (and after I’d had my ears blasted for being back late), I wrote down the words of our song so we wouldn’t forget them. It seems there are things to know about our songs, even the rubbish ones, things we don’t really know yet. There are so many things to know, and I really envy you because you’re learning some of them. I want t
o know important things, and also I want to know what’s important.
Slitting the throat of a sheep and hanging it up kicking seems to be a real thing, like picking watercress, and even though it’s something you can do and I can’t, I still want to know about it. Even though I wouldn’t want to cut the belly and haul the guts out I know it must sometimes be all right to have blood on your hands. Or if not blood then dirt, or shit – on the outside where you can see it. You see I’ve got this bad idea that I’m sitting here storing all the muck up inside me, getting slowly but surely shit ridden. As for you, you’ve never held any shit, ever, and never will.
But other things, so many things, I mean, I want to know what goes on in houses, especially in houses on hills with trees round them. What do the people there say to each other? What do they laugh about and what do they eat? Are their heads different from them being up higher? Do they chew gum, how can I know?
Are girls who work in clothes shops just like me, or do their faces fall away when night comes, and does someone hang them limp on a rack until morning? Does central heating dry people out and make them unable to face the weather? Well I could go on and on.
E hoa. I want to walk all over the world but how do I develop the skills for it sitting in a plastic bag fastened with a wire-threaded paper twist to keep the contents airtight. You sit cramped in there, with your head bowed, knees jack-knifed up under your chin.
If I walked round the world I’d wear two holes in my face in place of eyes and let everything pour in. I reckon I could play an alpine horn.
The other day two fifth formers bought pot from the caretaker then potted him. And a lot of fourth formers are getting high from sniffing cleaner fluid which they pour on their sleeves. Peter got his arm blown up when his mate lit a cigarette, and now he’s in hospital (luckily). Were we that suicidal two years ago, screaming round town in our jackets wishing to see someone slit from eye to knee with a knife?
I saw a girl nick a bottle of the stuff from a stand in McKenzies yesterday but I didn’t do anything. There were two rows of it on a glass shelf at 89c a bottle.
And now the bell rings and we’re almost through the day. No more letters to write, but next period (last one) I’ll write out THE SONG for everyone (see yours below). If I write slow enough it might use up the hour.
Well dear friend, write back straight away and tell us when you can come down again. WE’VE GOT PLANS and WE SEND OUR LOVE.
Yours 4 eva,
Whetu.
Sky love earth
Shine light
Fall rai-ai-ain.
Earth give life
Turn breast
To chi-i-ild.
Child
Steal light
Turn away rai-ai-ain.
Thrust bright
Sword
Deep into ea-ea-earth.
Mother bleed
Your child
Die.
Bleed mother
Child
Already dead.
W – o – te –M.
‘Letters from Whetu’ was first published in The Dream Sleepers and other stories (Longman Paul, 1980).
Patricia Grace is one of New Zealand’s most celebrated writers. She has published seven novels and seven short-story collections, as well as a number of books for children and works of non-fiction including her recent memoir From the Centre. Patricia has won numerous awards for her books including Potiki, Dogside Story and her children’s story The Kuia and the Spider. Patricia was born in Wellington and lives in Plimmerton on ancestral land, in close proximity to her home marae at Hongoeka Bay.
A Good Boy
Frank Sargeson
I never wanted to be a good boy. I’ve got myself into a mess I know, but won’t anyone ever understand that? Mother always said, If you take my advice you’ll always be a good boy. How could I tell her I didn’t want to be a good boy?
I was always real sorry for mother and father. They didn’t seem to have any pleasure in life. Father never went out after he’d come home from work. He just sat and read the paper. His stomach was bad too, and made noises, and he kept on saying, Pardon. It used to get on my nerves. I used to watch him and mother when I was supposed to be doing my homework. Sometimes the look on mother’s face gave me the idea that inside she wasn’t properly happy and was wanting pleasure just the same as I was. It used to make me come over all sentimental and I’d have a job to keep myself from crying. She used to say she never had a minute’s rest, and she’d keep on darning socks or something like that right until it was bedtime and she had to go and make father’s cocoa. They were good people, both of them. And they expected me to be good too. And how could I tell them that I didn’t want to be good?
I couldn’t tell them. Instead I pretty often played the wag instead of going to Sunday school and did things like that and they never found out. And when I started going to that billiard saloon I kept that dark too, because father and mother would never have stood for it. It was when I’d left school and could only get odd jobs, and father was making me swot at book-keeping so I could be an accountant instead of just a dry-cleaner like him.
Gee, but I used to have some fun in that billiard saloon. Paddy Evans kept it. He’d been a jockey but he’d pulled a horse and got disqualified. They said it was a crook business right through like they say all racing is. The trainer of the horse and the owner and a bookie were all mixed up in it. You know, crossing and double-crossing each other, but it was Paddy who got it in the neck. Anyhow Paddy was a good sort, even though he did have the hardest dial you ever saw on a man. And so was his wife a good sort too. Of course they weren’t good people like father and mother, they never went to church or anything like that, and it’s a fact that Paddy ran a book, but they were real good fun. I’ll tell you how fat Mrs Evans was. She was so fat she always had to make a split in the top part of her shoes and sew in a little gusset. She was absolutely full of fun, made a joke out of everything, and wintertimes when it was time to close she’d nearly always bring out coffee and toast.
You know I could never see anything much wrong in the billiard saloon. Most of the boys never had enough money to put anything on with Paddy, and billiards is a good game. It takes a boy’s mind off thinking too much about cuddling girls and other things. And with all those angles to think about it’s as hard as trying to work out one of those geometry theorems. Me and the boys were all good cobbers too. They were nearly all boys who worked in shops and motor places, and they used to ask me things like what it means when you put & Coy. on a cheque, and they used to sling off at me when I couldn’t tell them. Well, I don’t believe even a bank-manager can say why you put & Coy. on a cheque. Not properly say. But later on it was like I’ve said, I was just one of the boys. They didn’t sling off at me and we were all good cobbers.
Well, of course father found out. I was a bit too big then for him to give me one of those hidings but gee, the way he and mother talked at me was like nothing on earth. For peace and quietness I had to promise I wouldn’t go to Paddy’s place any more. Father had his knife into Paddy properly. He stuck him up in the street and roused him up hill and down dale, and one day when he happened to see him riding his bike on the footpath he had him fetched up in Court. Oh, hang it all, I didn’t blame father. He and mother are both good people, you can’t deny it. But it wouldn’t have done any good telling them it’s no use trying to make people good if they don’t want to be good.
Another thing, I’d have done anything to please mother at that time because it was just before my little sister was born. I’d noticed it was going to happen, and it sort of got under my skin because there’d been only just the three of us in our family ever since I could remember. At any rate, when it did happen it was lucky for me because it gave father and mother someone else to think about and made it easier for me to get out at night and see the girl that I’ve landed myself in this mess over. She worked in a restaurant and gee, it was fun to sneak round the back and help her wash
the dishes.
Oh hell, what’s the use of going on? I thought while they’re keeping me here in clink I’d write the story of my life, then perhaps if my little sister reads it when she’s grown up she might understand that I never wanted to be a good boy. But it’s all no good. What I’ve written so far is all balled up and doesn’t explain what I want it to at all. All I want to explain is that I never wanted to be a good boy, and how can I explain that?
I killed that girl. Yes. It was because she cracked on that I was the only fellow she was going with but I found her out. And what did I do? Did I remember that I never had been a good boy, and never wanted to be a good boy? Did I remember how the boys said Paddy Evans’ wife used to go out with a lawyer who bought her a fur coat, and Paddy just said he wished he’d buy her a muff as well? Did I? No I didn’t. I went all righteous just like father and mother used to go when they caught me or anyone else playing them a dirty trick. Gosh, when I killed the girl I felt better and cleaner than I’ve ever felt in my life. I bet father used to feel just the same as I did then when he used to give me those hidings. I never wanted to be a good boy, but when it came to a sort of test I found I was a good boy after all. I did the right thing. I’ve told the detectives and the lawyers and the doctors and everybody that over and over again, and they won’t believe me. You’d almost believe they think I’m off my block which is just plum ridiculous. I’ve told them I’ve never been a good boy, all except that one time when I did the right thing just like father and mother had always tried to teach me. That was the time I killed the girl.
Oh Christ, won’t anyone ever understand? I’m all balled up, I know, but I’m trying to explain. I never wanted to be a good boy.
Photo Credit: John Reece Cole, 1964
‘A Good Boy’ was most recently published in Frank Sargeson’s Stories (Cape Catley, 2010), and first published in the collection, A Man and His Wife, (Caxton Press, 1940).
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