‘My word that’s a lot. You’ll all have the bellyache. It’s a pity they don’t get you some decent food.’ The poor kid had hardly a sound tooth in her head.
‘Fizz,’ said a small voice at the doorway.
‘And please Miss Brown we gotta hundred fizz,’
‘Fizz?’
‘And straws,’ cried the child at the door.
‘Who are these, Lena?’
‘Please, Miss Brown, these my cousin. This Gwendoline and that one Harris. They Mrs Patutai baby. They coming to school maybe next year.’
‘Mrs Patutai? I haven’t heard of her.’
‘Please Miss Brown, she live over at Tokaanu. Our last baby die so these one come and live with us. She got too many.’
I don’t blame her, she thought, for giving them away. If this is populate or perish, I’ll take perish. There were more voices outside. She went out to look. The children at the door stared at her as she passed. They both had running noses. ‘Wah. Red hands too,’ she heard one of them say. ‘That’s varnish,’ came Lena’s voice. ‘I done mine with blackberry. Look. I done my mouth too but I lick him off. Sour.’ Miss Brown decided to ignore it. After all you could hardly blame them, they were so out of touch with civilisation away back here.
At the end of the building, where the sunlight made the white-washed wall hard to look at, three middle-aged women in dark cotton dresses were squatting. One was Terari’s wife, a big fat wahine, barefooted, with a rug around her and a sleeping baby’s head on her shoulder. The others she didn’t know. They were talking softly, making guttural noises to one another in Maori, and smoking. They smiled up at her. ‘Tenakoe.’
‘A lovely day Miss Brown,’ said Mrs Terari. ‘We come early to do some work but they never brought the stuff yet. Get things ready for the picnic.’
‘Picnic,’ the others smiled and nodded.
‘My husband here?’
‘Yes. That’s him chopping round at the back.’ She was wondering what to say. These old dames were hard to talk to. She stood uncomfortably before them. One of them looked up and caught her eye. ‘Picnic.’ She smiled and nodded again.
Some children were running about in the paddock, the boys looking very clean in white shirts and with their hair plastered down. They were, as usual, being aeroplanes, dive-bombing and making zooming noises. One of the women called out sharply to them. Mrs Terari pointed to her. ‘This lady’s son was killed in Crete. He go to this school before.’
‘Aie, Crete.’ The mother covered her face with her hands, then broke into rapid Maori. Fatty came round the corner. ‘Wah. You here? Where all those other fellow? Those damn lazy Maori, they no good for nothing.’ He went and struck the rail again. Just then there were shouts at the gate, and men and women came in carrying parcels and boxes. ‘Hey, you fellow,’ he called. ‘Miss Brown give you the strap for late.’ Mrs Terari shrieked with laughter. The place was suddenly crowded with voices and movement. The children all gathered round, guessing what was in the boxes.
After that everything happened quickly. The women all went inside to arrange the food. The men grouped round the fire, talking and laughing. They were a cut-throat looking crew. Miss Brown wished she could understand what they were laughing so much about. Telling dirty yarns probably.
Fatty went out in the middle of the paddock and started the races. The boys ran fiercely, showing their teeth and straining hard especially when the men cheered. Fatty gave her an old notebook and asked her to take down the results. ‘For prizes. This afternoon.’ She stood there for ages, watching the children run and writing their names down. The men got excited, the children were hot, and when they grouped round her she could hardly breathe. She always deodorised herself so carefully too.
An elderly woman, tall, very thin, with blue markings on her nose and chin and a dark shawl over her hair came towards the group, shrilling angrily at them. They fell silent. She seemed to be picking on Fatty. He began to expostulate but she brushed past him and inclined her head very graciously to Miss Brown, ‘Haeremai, haeremai,’ and smiled showing empty gums. She took Miss Brown’s arm and led her over to the school. I hope her hand’s clean, thought Miss Brown. I’ll have to wash this sweater now. ‘My son-in-law got no manners,’ said the old lady. ‘He shouldn’t left you out there with all those men. My name Mrs Te Ahuru. You come in and see all our baby. Nice for the girls to have the lady teacher.’
The schoolroom seemed crowded with women of all shades of brown and all ages. Sunken-cheeked old crones squatted against the wall in the sunlight under the windows, rolling cigarettes. Flash young things with lipstick, long-legged in high-heeled shoes, stood silkily, smoking tailormades. The desks were covered with food, buns and cakes on plates, and sandwiches in boxes and on newspapers. Boxes of pies stood near the fireplace and rows of red and yellow fizz bottles along the wall. Old Mrs Te Ahuru led her in and said something in Maori lingo, ending up with ‘Miss Brown’. They all looked up and smiled and nodded. She didn’t know what to say. ‘How do you do?’ she said. ‘Isn’t it a lovely day.’ Everyone seemed pleased. Smiles in all directions.
She was taken round to admire the babies. It was agony. She wasn’t interested in babies. All she could see of most of them was a small brown head lolling out of a blanket on the mother’s back, or staring big-eyed over the mother’s shoulder. She tried to say something nice. And there was Micky, her smallest primer, a little wizened creature with sad eyes like a monkey. ‘Hello Micky. Why aren’t you out running races?’
Micky grinned, crossing his legs with embarrassment but his eye was on the fizz. A youngish woman beside him answered; she was rather nice- looking but had very bad teeth. She spoke so pleasantly that Miss Brown decided she must have been somewhere to a Maori High School and then come back to the mat. Another baby hung on to her skirt and a third stared over her shoulder.
‘I don’t want Micky to run round,’ said the young woman. ‘He must keep quiet. He going to die soon.’
‘To die!’ Good Lord. And so matter-of-fact about it too. In school Micky was always full of beans.
‘Yes.’ The young woman fixed serious eyes on her. ‘You know that Chinese doctor who come around with all the medicine?’
Miss Brown nodded. Some peddling herbalist had been around just before she came, she had heard the kids talking about him.
‘I took Micky to see him. Micky not well, he so thin.’
‘And what did he say?’
‘When I go in the room he just look at me. He don’t speak, he just look for long time. He got sharp eyes too. Then he say “You Mrs Pine?” I say “Yes.” He say “Your husband name Joe?” I say “Yes.” He say “I can tell all about you. Your husband fall off his horse and break his shoulder. He can’t chop the trees now.” He say “Your second baby die and this one Micky not Joe’s baby. This Micky very sick.” He keep looking at me all the time and I get frightened and think I go out but he say “Don’t go out. I tell you about Micky.” So he say Micky all twisted up inside and pretty soon he die. He give me some medicine in the little bottle.’ She showed the size with her finger and thumb. ‘Seven and six. But I don’t get many bottle. Too dear. So I suppose Micky going to die.’ She rubbed Micky’s head gently with her hand. ‘That doctor right about those other things. You think he right about Micky too?’
‘Good Heavens no,’ said Miss Brown. ‘That’s terrible. Why don’t you tell the police?’
‘He make me frightened. Those sharp eyes they go right in me.’
‘But, but really you mustn’t take any notice of all that nonsense. You get the nurse to look at Micky next time she’s round. I don’t think there’s much the matter with him.’ Poor thing, how terrible. She must have believed it all too, the way she was looking. They were all so damnably ignorant of civilised procedure. ‘I’ll tell the nurse about it.’
The clang of the iron railing was reverberating through the room. ‘Come and get it,’ yelled Mrs Terari. ‘Heigh-oh Silver,’ called one of the men, and they
all came trooping in. The smell got stronger. They moved about, pushing, laughing, calling, helping themselves. Each child was sucking fizz through a straw, even the tiny ones. Miss Brown worked her way through them to the table, and from her case took her small lunch wrapped in a clean white serviette.
‘Here Miss Brown, you sit down.’ Fatty was offering her a chair. ‘Wah, the poetry eh? By golly I say the poetry. Here Miss Brown, you sit down. Here Miss Brown, you sit down.’ He roared with laughter. Fragments of half-chewed food lay on his tongue. She shuddered and looked away.
‘Miss Brown, you have this nice pie.’ Old Mrs Te Ahuru held out a clean plate with a pie on it. ‘I keep him for you. And these sandwich.’
‘But I have my own lunch here.’
‘That leetle bit. You eat more, that’s why you so thin eh? You have this nice pie.’
‘Oh no really I. …’
‘Oh but you must. You shouldn’t brought your dinner. You come to our picnic you eat our dinner.’ She turned to her son-in-law. ‘You get Miss Brown the nice cup of tea. In the clean cup.’
Somehow she got them down. There were so many things she couldn’t bear to watch—the old women mumbling soft sandwiches, Fatty eating pies enormously, the children with the wet under their noses mingling with the sticky wet round their mouths and chins from the fizz. Somehow the lunch ended and they went outside. Half-way, she thought. I’ve got the worst half over.
The sky was clouding, and a cool breeze came rustling across the tops of the tea-tree.
‘By golly we better hurry before the rain,’ shouted Fatty, and they ran the races in a frenzy of haste and shouting. The cheering was deafening for the grown-ups’ races. Some of the men were going out into the bushes just outside the gate and coming back wiping their mouths. When the unmarried women ran with their skirts tucked up above their knees the men whistled and cat-called.
Miss Brown sneaked away to the girls’ lavatory but when she tried to open the door there was a whiff of cigarette smoke and a guttural voice muttered something. She paused in indecision and an old crone came out and held the door for her, smiling gummily. She went in but could not bear to sit on that seat. After a decent interval she went back to the sports. Large isolated drops of rain were falling and rolling, still globular, in the dust. There was a sighing in the tea-tree as a grey curtain of rain moved towards them.
Soon they were all inside again. It’s beer they’ve got out there, thought Miss Brown, sniffing. Fatty lit the fire inside and carried in kerosene tins of water for another cup of tea. The tins looked small when he held them. Old Araroa had arrived and was standing there leaning firmly on his stick, whitehaired, full of gentleness and dignity, handing out the cheap toys for prizes. The children were rather in awe of him. He spoke softly, knowing most of the names. When all the prizes were gone and Micky was left standing beside his mother, the old man beckoned him over and gave him some money out of his pocket. The other kids crowded round. ‘How much you got, Micky?’ but he wouldn’t show them. He couldn’t count it.
No one knew what to do next. The rain was rattling on the roof and splashing against the windows. One young woman opened her blouse and began feeding her baby.
Fatty was approaching. ‘The old man like to hear the kids sing.’ Even he spoke quietly. ‘You make them sing something?’ Miss Brown finally had them in their desks, all self-conscious, pushing and showing off a little, looking to the sides to see who was watching.
The singing started, school songs for a while with Miss Brown beating time, then requests for popular songs and Maori tunes. Some of the men and women joined in. They began to warm up. The girls went in front and sang an action song. Even Lena went with them. The small girls moved stiffly, but the bigger ones were relaxed, their hands fluttered delicately, moving easily and clapping exactly in time. They finished and blushed at the applause. Some young women came out. More familiar cheering and whistling followed their number. Then the men lined up and started a vigorous song. The old ladies round the walls were nodding and smiling and moving their hands. Fatty was out in front leading the men with actions. Miss Brown was feeling out of things, when she noticed Fatty’s eye upon her. Oh hell, here he was, coming over, showing the whites of his eyes, his tongue, jerking and posturing about, wobbling his big belly, quivering his hands. She shrank back against the wall while he performed in front of her. She could smell beer. The crowd was shrieking with laughter. She felt her throat and cheeks burning. The big fat bastard, making a laughing-stock of her. Suddenly and savagely she smacked his face. There was a sudden silence, then a scream of laughter. His face was hanging there before her, utterly astonished, his mouth hung open, his hands slowly sank. She was amazed at what she had done and very frightened, but he turned and saw the mirth, then clowning, clapped his hand over one eye and staggered back shouting with laughter. Old Mrs Te Ahuru was beside her. ‘You serve him right,’ she was shouting. ‘You serve him damn well right.’ She shooed some children out of a desk. ‘We sit here.’
The show went on, there was no stopping them now. A new man was out in front leading a haka. The men shouted, smacked, jumped, stamped, the beat thundered round the room. The veins stood out on their throats and foreheads. The old women around the walls were mouthing, twitching, jerking their hands, grimacing. First one then another got up and moved jerkily across the floor, keeping in time with the beat, to join the line. Everybody was doing it, the kids too. The din was immense, the building shook, borer-dust showered down, dust rose from the floor. Crash! The climax. Sweaty faces smiling, all coughing in the dust.
‘Tea, tea,’ called old Mrs Te Ahuru beside her. ‘Water boiling. We make tea.’
Miss Brown felt overpowered, helpless. These people were of another kind altogether. She was utterly alone among them. She felt suffocated. She couldn’t stand it. She got her case and made for the door. A hand on her arm. Old Mrs Te Ahuru. And Fatty too.
‘You can’t go. Look. It’s still raining.’
‘I must. I’ve got to be back early.’
‘But raining. You get wet through.’
‘I can’t help it. I can’t stay any longer.’
‘You got no coat?’
‘No.’
‘You take my rug.’ Old Mrs Te Ahuru was unwrapping it. ‘Look, I show you how to wear it.’
‘No, no, please.’
‘You want some coat?’ Fatty turned and called to the crowd. A girl came forward with a raincoat. ‘Here. You bring him back on Monday eh?’
They helped her into the coat. ‘You come and see us some more,’ said Mrs Te Ahuru. Old Araroa was approaching but she picked up her bag, got her bike. The rain was cold on her face and neck but oh, the air was clean and sweet, and she was away from them. Oh Christ, she thought, I must get out of it. I must get George somehow, get him drunk, have a baby even. Anything.
After all, she thought, they’re nothing but a pack of savages. Not even civilised. The rain was very steady, and by the time she reached the porter’s house she was wet through. All the rolls were washed out of her hair and her make-up was streaky.
All this for a pack of bloody savages, she thought.
(1947)
Reweti T. Kohere, from The Autobiography of a Maori
When Mr Thornton asked me to join the teaching staff of Te Aute College I was greatly pleased for I had always entertained a high opinion of teaching as a profession.
I was given a private room and, as I sat at the master’s table, I could not help taking a mental review of my life and, though I felt quite pleased, I was disappointed that my father, who had done so much in giving me a good education, had died in 1886 and was thus unable to share my satisfaction.
I rather enjoyed my work and felt glad that I was at last earning my own living. Mr Thornton one day congratulated me for the progress my classes were making, but I always felt that he did not like my being on friendly terms with people outside the college. There were people who thought that Maoris should be kept in their place and
to show them too much kindness would spoil them. The kindness shown to me by many white families who received me into their homes remains with me as a guiding star for which I am profoundly thankful. I realise they showed much interest in me because I was a humble follower of Jesus Christ.
In my second year as a teacher at the college I was not very happy. Mr Thornton, in a very officious manner, sent me a note which said that the headmaster had seen me sitting down with my legs crossed and that I had mispronounced the name Hooker. It made me feel quite uncomfortable for I did not know it was wrong to sit down with legs crossed; and as to the pronunciation of Hooker, I wondered how on earth I was supposed to know any difference. I had a wish to proceed to the university and Mr Thornton’s attitude increased that desire. I confided in my friends and they at once set to work to pave the way for my desire. As a result, in 1895, I found myself in Christchurch, an undergraduate at the Canterbury University College. I stayed at College House under Canon Walter Harper. I was not there to obtain a degree, as Sir Apirana Ngata had done earlier, but to gain further insight into the life of the pakeha. I enjoyed my three-year stay at College House and while there I made it a rule not to go out and have a good time though I made the acquaintance of a few families who were all very good to me. I enjoyed my Sunday walks over the Port Hills to the native settlement at Rapaki where I conducted divine services. I often spent a weekend here, staying at the Tikaos’.
I also often rode on my bicycle to Tuahiwi and was on many occasions accompanied by young white friends. I was once asked by the Presbyterian clergyman at Kaiapoi to preach in his pulpit and I consented to his request. Not long after this, Canon Harper called me aside for he had received a complaint that I had preached in a Presbyterian Church and he advised me not to do it again, not that he minded, but he thought it best not to give people occasion to talk.
As a matter of fact, I found myself in great demand and spoke at many meetings of various kinds, Church meetings, prohibition meetings and I once spoke at an annual meeting of the Society for the Prevention of Cruelty to Animals. I was curious to learn what the latter meeting would be like and, to my surprise, I found Bishop Julius there. He was to speak first and I was to follow him. It was a large meeting and I observed that the ladies were quite well dressed. I knew that, since the foundation of the society, annual meetings had been held and speakers had generally spoken on kindness to dumb animals. I knew also that I was asked to speak because I was a Maori, the only Maori undergraduate at Canterbury College. It was a novelty and, I must say, something out of the ordinary. Evidently Bishop Julius had a similar line of thought for he gave a very interesting address as only he could give. He described a trip he had once taken to the wild West Coast where he found birds and animals were not at all timid, the inquisitive weka having almost fed out of his hand. Years later, he visited the same spot and found that the conduct of the birds and animals had changed, even his friend the weka gave him a wide berth. They had learned in the meantime that man was a beast! I was tickled by the bishop’s metaphor and I have never forgotten it, though in all probability the bishop has by now forgotten all about the meeting and his brown seconder.
The Auckland University Press Anthology of New Zealand Literature Page 65